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A Hard 


Lessor) 


BY 


oven?ber 1st, 1891. Issued Sen}i-A\pntbly. Annua.1 Subscription, $ I 0.00. 

Entered ait tbe ffcw YorH post Office ais Second Ofcss /^aitter. 






A HARD LESSON. 





































- 



























































































































































A HARD 

LESSON 


-^V- BY /^ 

E. LOVETT CAMERON 

«i 

AUTHOR OF “THIS WICKED WORLD”; “A LIFE’S MISTAKE”; 
“DECEIVERS EVER,” ETC., ETC. 




NOV .12.1 iS I 


vWbe u 



NEW YORK 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 

1 19 Potter Building. 


Copyright, 1891, by 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 


A HARD LESSON. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Helen !” 

There was no answer. Miss Fairbrother glanced up 
at the old French clock on the high mantelshelf, then 
back at the crouching figure in the window-seat; but 
the bent brown head never moved. Miss Fairbrother 
waited a moment, and then she spoke again — in that 
quiet, well-balanced voice that was part of herself. 

“ Helen, my dear, if you are going to the station to 
meet Frederick, it is quite time for you to get ready.” 

The girl lifted her head with a start. Her gray eyes 
were dazed and dreamy, her lips parted vaguely. Her 
mind was evidently far away, still wrapped up in the 
fortunes of the heroine of her book. 

“ I — I beg your pardon, Miss Fairbrother. Did you 
speak to me?” 

“ I called your attention to the hour, my dear. It is 
time for you to get your hat. I spoke twice,” added 
the old lady, with a gentle reproach. 

Helen Dacre flushed a little guiltily, and rose hastily 
to her feet. She was a tall girl — tall and slight — with 
a small, thoroughbred head and a slender neck. There 
was something fine and distinguished about her ; it was 
not exactly beauty, for her features were far from per- 
fect, but there was a subtle grace in her movements, 

5 


6 


A HARD LESSON. 


and that nameless charm called fascination, which it is 
always difficult to define, but which produces often a 
more distinct effect, in its own way, than does actual 
beauty. For the rest, her eyes, which were her best 
point, were large, and of a deep shadowy gray, whilst 
her mouth was essentially womanly — that is to say, it 
was tender and tremulous, but a thought weak and 
irresolute in outline — a sweet mouth, with no very 
decided character about it. 

As she rose hastily to her feet the novel she had been 
reading slipped with a little clatter on to the polished 
floor at her feet, whilst her hands — long-fingered, blue- 
veined hands, such as Sir Joshua Reynolds would have 
loved to paint — went up half nervously to smooth her 
ruffled, nut-brown locks. 

“ My dear, you have dropped your book,” said the old 
schoolmistress, reposingly. “ Pray be more careful. 
How often I have told you. ” 

“I am sorry, Miss Fairbrother,” said Helen, almost 
mechanically, as she stooped to pick up the fallen vol- 
ume. It was necessary to be “sorry” very often in 
Miss Fairbrother’s company; there were so many little 
things which jarred all daylong against the good lady’s 
principles of order and propriety. 

“I did not see that it was so late,” she continued, 
apologetically, as she came forward out of the window 
corner. “ I will go at once.” 

“ I very much regret the infirmity which prevents 
my accompanying you in your walk, my love. Were 
it not for that, I should not, of course, allow you to go 
alone across the Common. It may, indeed, be an actual 
dereliction of duty on my part,” added the old lady, 
doubtfully; but Helen broke in quickly with a bright 
little smile — 


A HARD LESSON. 


7 


“ Pray do not distress yourself, dear Miss Fairbrother. 
I know you would come if you were a better walker ; 
as it is, no harm can possibly happen to me.” 

“ No, that is true, and then Frederick is so steady, so 
superior — so unlike all other young men — that I feel 
there can in this case be no impropriety in permitting 
you to walk alone with him.” 

“None whatever, I should think,” replied Helen, 
somewhat drily, as she left the room. 

When she was outside the door she laughed outright. 

“ Poor dear Miss Fairbrother!” she said, half aloud. 
“ For two whole years she has said the same thing every 
time that Frederick is coming down! I suppose it is a 
salve to her conscience! But as to Frederick. Oh! 
could Frederick Warne say or do anything improper, 
under any provocation whatever, I wonder?” 

Outside — beyond the high, red-brick walls, mellow 
with age and lichen, which shut in Miss Fairbrother’s 
old-fashioned Georgian mansion within its peaceful 
garden precincts — lay the wide, breezy Common, glow- 
ing like a land of gold in the slanting rays of the set- 
ting sun. The gorse bushes were still powdered over 
with yellow blossom, whilst half-withered bracken 
fronds, of every shade, from deepest browns and crim- 
sons to palest saffron, clothed the broad level space 
with the glory of the September coloring. All around 
the Common, but so far away in the tender evening 
light as not to be inharmonious to the landscape, cir- 
cled a fringe of houses. Some, indeed, were smart 
new villas, with trim gardens in front of them, and 
white painted gates and railings, but mostly they were 
quiet old houses, nestling soberly amongst tufted 
trees, or hiding themselves in dignified seclusion 
behind old walls that had stood about them for a cen- 


8 


A HARD LESSON. 


tury or more. Crossing the Common from north to 
south ran a fine white line — the high road that led 
from great London, not ten miles away, down into the 
peaceful heart of the country beyond ; whilst at the far 
eastern corner of the heath, an incongruous blot upon 
the peaceful scene, was the railway station and its out- 
buildings. 

It was something to be out of doors and to be free ! — 
away from the shadow of the old red-brick house with 
its gray stone copings, and beyond its high walls and 
ponderous iron gates. Helen had never loved it. It 
had been her home for seven years ; yet she had never 
ceased to regard it as a prison. 

She remembered well the day when she had first 
come to it. Her father was dead. Her guardian, who 
was almost a stranger to her, and whom she had never 
seen since, had brought her down in a cab from Lon- 
don, and had delivered her over into Miss Fairbrother’s 
charge. She was only thirteen — a lanky, awkward girl, 
with big, sad eyes, and a pale, solemn face. She had 
not shed a single tear — not one — only as the high 
wrought-iron gates had clanged harshly together behind 
her she had said to herself, in her desolate child’s heart, 
that they were prison doors which were shutting her in 
for evermore from the stir and bustle and life of the 
world outside. 

In all the years that had gone by she had never 
entirely lost that feeling — not even now, when she was 
twenty and no longer Miss Fairbrother’s pupil, but her 
right hand and lieutenant in the school ; when too, she 
was engaged to be married, and might reasonably ex- 
pect to have a home of her own before very long. 

Yet somehow freedom was the dream she still dreamt 
of — freedom to do as she liked, and go where she 


A HARD LESSON. 


9 


pleased — to see the world as others did, to taste of its 
joys and its pleasures, of its sorrows even — so long only 
as she might extend her sphere of knowledge. 

And this freedom after which she yearned so in- 
tensely did not seem likely to come to her in any fash- 
ion, or from any direction that she could possibly 
descry ; no, not even through the door of marriage and 
through Frederick Warne. 

Helen, when she got out upon the Common, well 
away from the shadow of Aberdare House, did not 
hurry herself in any way. On the contrary, she walked 
slowly and dreamily, as one who seeks to prolong the 
moments that are passing and is in no haste to squan- 
der them away. Her eyes were bent upon the ground, 
and all her thoughts were still full of that happy hero- 
ine of her story-book whose lot — full of tragic excite- 
ment as it was — seemed to her to be so infinitely 
enviable. 

And yet she must have known that the train which 
was bringing Frederick Warne was even now due at 
the station. 

Assuredly there was very little of the keenness of a 
woman who is beloved, and who goes forth eagerly to 
meet her lover, in her lagging footsteps ! 

It was the last day of the summer holidays. To- 
morrow all the girls were coming back, and Aberdare 
House would be full of noise and chatter from attic to 
cellar. Then good-by to peace and to dreamy mus- 
ings — to story-books and castles in the air! Helen 
sighed a little as she thought of it. 

The evening sun behind her threw a long shadow of 
her tall figure in front of her, and so absorbed was she 
in her own thoughts as she walked slowly along, with 
her eyes bent upon its fantastic bickerings preceding 


10 


A HARD LESSON. 


her along the grassy footpath, that it was with quite a 
start that, upon reaching the high road, she looked up 
suddenly to find herself within a few hundred yards of 
a very whirlwind of noise and commotion — a brilliant 
vision out of that unknown world of life and pleasure 
into which her lonely feet so often longed to enter. 

A coach was coming rapidly along the road towards 
her. The yellow wheels whirled in the sunshine ; a 
cloud of dust filled the air behind it ; the four chestnut 
horses groomed into the shine of satin came trotting 
smartly along; there was a sound of clanking bars and 
bits, and of jingling harness, the even ring of hoofs 
and the rumbling of the heavy vehicle behind them, 
and, above all, the sound of merry voices and light 
laughter from the gay group of men and women who 
were seated together upon it. 

Helen Dacre, upon the edge of the dusty road, stood 
still to watch this beautiful sight as it passed by. Gaz- 
ing intently up into the faces above her, she saw a 
handsome man with blue eyes and an auburn mus- 
tache upon the box, and beside him a small, fair woman 
in a shining white dress, and a smart hat covered with 
pink roses. Behind them sat other happy-looking and 
well-dressed men and women, but these she did not see 
so well ; it was the man who was driving and the lady 
by his side that filled her eyes in that brief moment 
which they flashed by her, and then the man, glancing 
carelessly aside, saw her too, and their eyes met. 

In the days that were to come Gilbert Nugent was 
destined to remember that moment. The level Com- 
mon, the golden glow of the sunset, and the slender, 
solitary figure of the girl in her shabby dress standing 
up, tall and graceful, in strong relief against the red 
light of the evening sky behind her formed a picture 


A HARD LESSON. 


I I 

whose strange and curious charm never quite faded 
form his memory. 

In another moment the vision was over; the vague 
glimpse into an unknown future had vanished. The 
coach, with its spanking horses and gay load, was gone ; 
and Helen, in her gray frock, stood alone by the road- 
side, looking somewhat sadly after the cloud of dust in 
which it was whirled away from her sight. 

And she never even saw another lowlier vehicle 
which followed it along the road — a hansom cab with 
an elderly gentleman sitting inside it. And yet of the 
two, if she had but known it, the hansom ought to have 
been by far the most interesting to her. 

By the time it passed Helen was away on the heath 
again, and a man carrying a Gladstone bag in his hand 
was advancing rapidly towards her along the grassy 
path. 

“You are late, my dear. I was quite disappointed 
not to find you waiting upon the platform.” 

Somehow the voice, the tone, the implied reproof 
were all exactly like Miss Fairbrother. 

“ I am here at any rate now,” answered the girl care- 
lessly, as she shook hands and turned round with him. 

Frederick Warne was Miss Fairbrother’ s nephew — 
her dead sister’s son, and in the eyes of his aunt, at 
any rate, he was a very prince amongst men. What- 
ever might be the virtues of his character — and no 
doubt they were inestimable — as a man he was not 
much to look at. A pale, freckled complexion, sandy 
hair and eyebrows, and a short, ginger-colored beard 
and mustache, behind which the thin lips of a some- 
what mean and obstinate mouth were but scantily con- 
cealed ; narrow, stooping shoulders and a hollow chest ; 
and that sort of shambling gait and figure upon which 


12 


A HARD LESSON. 


a first-rate West-end tailor might have expended his 
whole energies in vain. Such was the outward appear- 
ance of the man whom Helen Dacre had promised to 
take for her lord and master! When they stood, as 
now, side by side, Warne was shorter than she was, and 
a casual passer-by would scarcely have taken them to 
belong to the same rank of life. And yet Frederick 
Warne was placidly and serenely unconscious of any 
shadow of disparity between himself and his promised 
wife. Indeed, if he had given any thought at all to 
the matter, it would have been unhesitatingly to pro- 
nounce the balance in his own favor. Helen, as his 
aunt was always telling him, was young and unformed. 
Her mind was ill-balanced, and all her good impulses 
came by fits and starts. But what a fortunate girl she 
was to be the chosen wife of such a one as Frederick 
Warne — so high-principled, so steady, and so richly 
endowed with all the cardinal virtues! Under such 
guidance, and with such a life’s companion, Helen’s 
faults must surely become eradicated, and her character 
derive strength and elevation. Miss Fairbrother often 
enlarged on this theme to him ; indeed, she frequently 
told him that in a measure he was undoubtedly throw- 
ing himself somewhat away. 

It was no wonder, perhaps, that the young man, in 
spite of half-hearted denials, really believed it to be 
the case. But he made excuses for Helen, and flattered 
himself that he was gifted with a mission — the mission 
to mould and to perfect the faulty nature of this attrac- 
tive young girl who had confided her future to his 
hands. 

Frederick Warne was a schoolmaster. In that state- 
ment, perhaps, lies the whole explanation of his char- 
acter. A schoolmaster is by training, by habit, by the 


A HARD LESSON. 


I 3 


natural force of the circumstances of his existence, 
more dictatorial, and more imbued with a sense of his 
own importance, and of the inferiority of other people, 
than any other man on earth. 

It is perhaps unavoidable that he should be so. The 
constant habit of teaching, of correcting, and of sup- 
pressing those under his charge imparts to his whole 
moral nature an unconscious tinge of self-sufficiency. 
He feels himself to be a superior being, sent into the 
world purposely to set other people to rights. Being 
unaccustomed to contradiction, he is unable to brook it ; 
that anybody should dare to differ from him, or to set 
up opinions in opposition to his own, strikes him as an 
impertinence — as a sacrilege almost ; and it follows very 
often that the world, that is about to take us at our own 
valuation, smiles in its sleeve, and good-naturedly 
allows him to believe himself to be infallible. 


CHAPTER II. 


Frederick Warne was classical master at a large 
middle-class grammar school in the north of London. 
When his duties at St. Matthew’s permitted him to do 
so — that is, on the two half holidays of the week — he 
had been in the habit of coming down to his aunt’s 
school on Cleares Common, in order to instruct the 
young ladies of her high-class establishment in the 
rudiments of the Latin language. 

It was, perhaps, quite natural under the circum- 
stances that Warne should have fallen in love with the 
tall, dark-eyed pupil-teacher, who shared the Latin 
lessons of the upper class, and whom he had watched 
grow from a shy child into a graceful, self-possessed 
woman. As far as in him lay he was honestly and 
genuinely in love with her. He admired her dark gray 
eyes and the turn of her well-shaped head. He said to 
himself, in his fatuous, underbred mind, that she 
“looked quite the lady,” and that she would do him 
credit. And there were other things besides. She 
knew how to teach. She might help him in his career, 
and she had forty pounds a year of her own ! Forty 
pounds regarded as an annual income is not perhaps 
much, but it is better than nothing. Very decidedly 
better ! It would pay for her clothes, it would help to 
keep the domestic pot boiling. All things considered, 
he might go farther and fare worse. 

For certain, in all his limited experience the poor 
young man had never come across anything half so 

14 


A HARD LESSON. 


15 


sweet and fair as Helen Dacre. It was small wonder 
that he should have coveted her for his own. 

What was wonderful about the matter was that Helen 
should ever have been brought to consent to his pro- 
posal. The prospects he had to offer her were not brill- 
iant. His annual earnings were scarcely larger than 
her own small pittance ; he could not afford to marry 
her at once ; it had to be a waiting engagement, and 
the marriage was to be indefinitely deferred until his 
position in the world should be bettered. He had noth- 
ing, therefore, to offer her save his own dull and 
ungainly self, and most assuredly she did not love 
him. 

When he had made his proposal in due form, cor- 
rectly and decorously, through the medium of his 
aunt — an event which had happened now nearly two 
years ago — a great many small things put together had 
induced Helen to give a reluctant consent to his offer. 
She was very tired of teaching. She fancied that mar- 
riage would mean an escape from her prison, and from 
Miss Fairbrother’s incessant admonitions. The good 
lady herself was loud in expressions of delighted amaze- 
ment at her wonderful good fortune, and urged her to 
accept so unspeakable a blessing as Frederick Warne’s 
affections promptly, and with heartfelt gratitude. In 
fact, she refused even to listen to the small doubts which 
poor Helen attempted timidly to put forward, shutting 
her eyes and shaking her head in horror over them, as 
though they had been actual sins of the deepest dye. 
After she had spoken the fatal word Helen had cer- 
tainly felt many degrees happier concerning her future, 
but did not experience much alteration in the conditions 
of her present. 

Frederick Warne was not an ardent lover. His court- 


1 6 


A HARD LESSON- 


ship was conducted upon the most matter-of-fact princi- 
ples ; and if passion ever found a place in his sluggish 
soul he was careful, from a sense of duty, to suppress 
every outward exhibition of it. After the few first days 
of bewildered surprise Helen learnt to be very grateful 
indeed that it was so. 

The lovers met invariably, as they had met upon the 
Common to-day, with a quiet handshake and a few con- 
ventional inquiries after each other’s health. 

To-day, however, Frederick had something new to 
say to his ladylove — a great piece of news, which he 
proceeded in his slow and pedantic way to communicate 
to her. 

“ I have something of great importance to tell you, 
my dear Helen ; something that may materially alter 
my whole future prospects,” he began. 

“ Indeed!” There was but a faint curiosity in her 
mind. 

“ I have been offered an appointment as classical 
master in the South London High School for Girls.” 

“ Really? Is it a good thing?” 

“ It would mean an increase of fifty pou’nds a year on 
my present income,” answered Frederick, with impor- 
tance, “and a lodging free of rent attached to the 
building.” 

“ Should you live there, then ?” inquired Helen, 
absently, with her eyes fixed upon the red-gold clouds 
in the western sky. Frederick Wame stopped short 
and faced her. 

“ I do not think you apprehend the importance of 
what I am saying, Helen. I had expected you to take 
a greater interest in my career, and to appreciate with 
keener intelligence the honor as well as the lucrative 
advantage which is to be given to me. With this 


A HARD LESSON. 


17 

appointment I shall be in a position to marry and offer 
you a home next Christmas. ” 

“Oh!” Helen was awake enough now. She turned 
on him two startled eyes. “Surely,” she stammered, 
“ surely that is very soon?” 

“ Soon ! When our engagement has lasted two years ! 
I thought you would have been glad,” he continued, 
in a voice of mild reproach; “you do not seem glad 
at all. ” 

“Forgive me,” she murmured, confusedly. “I — I — 
was surprised. I am glad — I suppose.” For the mo- 
ment she felt genuinely penitent. 

Frederick Warne looked at her coldly. “ You express 
yourself badly,” he said, in his formal schoolmaster 
voice, “ and without self-control. It is wise always to 
reflect before uttering meaningless and broken remarks. 
We will talk of this matter again, when you are calmer, 
with my aunt.” 

He pushed open the iron gates for her, and Helen 
went in silently. 

It is time to return to Miss Fairbrother. Soon after 
Helen had met her lover on the Common, the old school- 
mistress, who had somehow fallen into a little doze by 
the chimney corner, suddenly became very wide awake 
and sat bolt upright in her chair as the maid-servant 
opened the door behind her and announced in a voice 
of due importance — 

“The Earl of Bainton, m’am.” 

No more startling name could possibly have broken 
in upon her repose. It was now seven years ago since 
Lord Bainton had brought to her the little girl whom 
his old friend Colonel Dacre had left to his most reluc- 
tant guardianship. Years ago, when Miss Fairbrother 
was still brisk and active, and comparatively young, 
2 


i8 


A HARD LESSON. 


she had been governess to Lord Bainton’s sister; and 
when Lady Camilla Greyson heard that her bachelor 
brother had been saddled with a ward— a ward, too, 
with only forty pounds a year ! — she had said to him in 
her off-hand way — 

“ Oh, take the child down to old Fairbrother’s — she 
keeps a school now on Cleares Common. She will edu- 
cate her for her forty pounds a year, and when she is 
old enough she can turn her into a pupil teacher, and 
she will earn her own living. In that way you need 
never be bothered with her any more.” 

Lord Bainton had thankfully taken his sister’s 
advice. Although a kind-hearted man, he was some- 
what selfish and indolent. He liked his own ways and 
his own life, and anything more disconcerting to him 
than to find himself the guardian of a female child it 
would be difficult to imagine. He thought it, pri- 
vately, very inconsiderate of poor Dacre to saddle him 
with such a bequest. Nevertheless, being a man of 
honor and of conscience, he felt himself compelled to 
do his duty by the child. He took Helen himself down 
to Aberdare House and confided her to the care of his 
sister’s old governess. 

Once a year he received a letter from Miss Fair- 
brother reporting his ward’s progress, to which he 
invariably wrote an answer filled with polite and suit- 
able, if somewhat meaningless, sentences; and when 
the time came for the girl to become a teacher instead 
of a pupil in the school, he notified his consent and 
approval of the change in her position. In addition, 
he administered her small fortune carefully and judi- 
ciously, and invariably sent her a five-pound note at 
Christmas-time as a present from hi'mself. Lord Bain- 
ton could not conceive that his duties as a guardian 


A HARD LESSON. 


19 


could possibly have been more conscientiously ful- 
filled. 

That he should go down to Cleares Common and per- 
sonally inspect his ward had never entered into the 
scheme of his obligations towards her. Nor would he 
for a moment have imagined that he would be benefit- 
ing her by doing so. Her position in life was bound 
to be a lowly one. She was probably happy where she 
was. Miss Fairbrother, at any rate, assured ‘ him that 
she was. Of what advantage, therefore, to unsettle her 
by visits which could necessarily lead to nothing? She 
could have nothing to say to him, and, most assuredly, 
he could have nothing to say to her. As he remem- 
bered her she had been awkward and ungainly ; there 
had been nothing attractive at all about her. She had 
been a plain and dull child then ; she was probably a 
plain and dull young woman now. 

He had no desire whatever to renew his acquaintance 
with her. But now something totally unforeseen had 
occurred — something which had most materially altered 
the whole complexion of the case. 

A great many years before the date of this history, 
there had been three friends together at Eton and at 
Oxford who had been absolutely inseparable in their 
devotion to each other. When they left college, and 
entered upon the battle of life, their paths had, as is 
generally the case, widely diverged from each other. 
Dacre went into the army and was ordered abroad, 
where he married a penniless girl, who died in her first 
confinement. Bainton in due course succeeded to his 
father’s title and estates. George Ashworth, the third of 
the trio, went out to seek his fortune in Australia, pur- 
chased for a song a small property there, upon which he 
lived and prospered, and became eventually a rich man. 


20 


A HARD LESSON. 


Of the three, James Dacre was the only one who 
married ; and when Ash wort n returned, broken in 
health, to England to enjoy such pleasures as his wealth 
might still bring to him, he returned only in time to 
be present at Colonel Dacre ’s funeral, and to shake 
Lord Bainton’s hand once more across the open grave 
of their mutual old friend. After that the two friends 
met often, and Ashworth was such a complete recluse, 
owing to the fatal disease which had already under- 
mined his life, that he scarcely saw any one else. He 
had one nephew — the son of a sister who was dead — 
and to this nephew he conceived an unconquerable 
dislike. Yet those about him took it for granted that 
this nephew would necessarily become his heir. Per- 
haps the young man himself took it for granted, too, 
and showed that he did so too plainly. Anyhow, when 
the end came, as, after seven years of a long and pain- 
ful illness, it came at last, George Ashworth’s will was 
a complete surprise to everybody save his solicitor. 
The Earl of Bainton was named his sole executor, with 
a legacy of two valuable Gainsboroughs and some 
sketches by Turner, which he had always admired. 
To the nephew was left five hundred pounds and a por- 
trait of his mother by an inferior artist. The whole of 
the rest of his fortune was devised, unconditionally and 
unreservedly, to a person whom he had heard of — but 
had never seen — Colonel James Dacre’s orphan daugh- 
ter. Now this was the astonishing news which Lord 
Bainton had driven down all the way from town in a 
hansom to impart to the schoolmistress at Aberdare 
House. 

The story, wonderful as it was, took but a very few 
minutes to tell, and soon Miss Fairbrother was in pos- 
session of the main facts of the case. 


A HARD LESSON. 


21 


Somebody — the good lady hardly knew who, save 
that he was an old friend of her father’s — had died and 
left Helen thirty thousand pounds. 

Poor Miss Fairbrother gasped for breath over the 
news. 

“But — but,” she panted, “how is it possible — when 
he never saw her — never heard of her ?” 

“ Pardon me ; he had heard of her often. He used 
to inquire about her from me.” 

“ And yet you left her here, Lord Bainton ! A pupil- 
teacher in my school! You never informed me that 
she would require special teaching and training, so 
that she might be rendered fit to become the possessor 
of a large fortune ?” 

“You misjudge me, Miss Fairbrother. Naturally, I 
knew nothing whatever of my poor friend’s intentions 
with regard to his money. Had I been aware of them 
I should certainly not have left Helen here so long. 
However, I am persuaded that my ward will do credit 
to your care and training ” — this Lord Bainton added 
with a bow and a polite smile — “ and so now that it has 
become my duty to remove her to a wider sphere of 
life I shall do so with all confidence in you, and in any 
case her future is before her, and no harm has been 
done. ” 


CHAPTER III. 


It was at this moment that Miss Fairbrother suddenly 
recollected Frederick Warne. 

By a singular omission in her letter to Helen’s guar- 
dian she had never informed him of his ward’s engage- 
ment. Lord Bainton had taken apparently so little 
interest in the girl, and had evidently desired to have 
so little personally to do with her, that she had always 
supposed when the time came he would be glad enough 
to learn she had found a respectable and suitable hus- 
band who would take her entirely off his hands. 
Somehow she had kept the little secret religiously from 
him, not knowing quite, perhaps, at the very bottom 
of her heart, how he might take it, and yet not doubt- 
ing, either, that it would be easy to obtain his consent 
when Frederick’s prospects should enable him to fix 
a date for his marriage. 

Now for the first time Miss Fairbrother ’s conscience 
troubled her, while at the same time her worldly anx- 
iety for her nephew’s advantage led her secretly to 
rejoice; for how was this miraculous turn of the wheel 
of Fortune going to affect her nephew? 

“ It is all for the best,” she told herself. “ How was 
I to know that the girl would be an heiress? They 
can’t blame me. Of course, had I known it, I would 
not have allowed Frederick to pay his addresses to her. 
But, there, it can’t be helped now; and what a splen- 
did match for dear Frederick, to be sure!” 

“ I should like to see my ward,” here said Lord Bain- 
22 


A HARD LESSON. 


23 


ton. “ You have never described her to me, Miss Fair- 
brother. Tell me what she has grown into — what is 
she like?” 

Miss Fairbrother shook her head doubtfully — 

“ She is very unformed still — you must not be too 
critical, Lord Bainton.” 

This was not promising. The earl, who had a keen 
eye for beauty, felt disheartened. 

“She was an ungainly looking child, I remember,” 
he remarked dubiously. 

“She is very much what she was, I fear. Every- 
thing with Helen is by fits and starts. She is impul- 
sive— she lacks self-control. Sometimes she is abstracted 
and inattentive to what might improve her mind ; some- 
times she expresses her opinions crudely and unbecom- 
ingly for a young girl.” 

Lord Bainton laughed. “ Oh, never mind her im- 
pulses and her opiniQns — I don’t care a fig about that, 
Miss Fairbrother. What are her face and shape like? — 
that is what is of most importance to a woman in the 
world, you know!” 

At such a horrible and heterodox sentiment the 
schoolmistress shuddered. Here was, indeed, an up- 
heaval of all her most sacred and cherished doctrines! 
She, who for fifty years of a long and honored career 
had preached from the self-same text to succeeding 
generations of maidens : “ Be good — be orderly — behave 
decorously. Never mind what your face is like so long 
as your principles are unassailable and your mind is 
modest and well stocked with Christian virtues. To 
be good is better than to be pretty.” 

She had always impressed it upon them all, and per- 
haps they had believed her, while they were with her ; 
but then they had gone their ways into the wicked 


24 


A HART) LESSON. 


world without, and the wicked world had speedily 
taught them — the pretty ones particularly — quite a 
different kind of lesson ! 

Still, Miss Fairbrother had gone perseveringly on 
with her little stereotyped sermon. And to-day she 
was told by a man — an old man too, who ought to have 
known better — that a girl’s face and shape were of 
more importance to her than her mind ! 

Fortunately she was saved from the necessity of a 
reply to so terrible a statement, for the door opened, 
and Helen herself entered, her tall and slender form 
concealing the shorter figure of the man who followed 
her through the doorway. 

“ Here is Helen, Lord Bainton,” said Miss Fair- 
brother. “ Helen, this is your guardian, Lord Bain- 
ton.” 

Lord Bainton rose to his feet. Amazement, bewil- 
derment even, followed quickly by unbounded delight 
and admiration, coursed rapidly across his keen and 
wrinkled features. He flushed a little as he held out 
his hand to her. Nothing had astonished him so much 
for many years. The little, long-legged, gawky girl 
of thirteen, with heavy eyes and pale cheeks, with 
rough, lustreless locks and homely and irregular feat- 
ures, had disappeared. In her place there stood before 
him a tall and graceful woman — a woman with bewil- 
dering eyes and a delightful smile, with a rose flush upon 
the delicate cream tints of a rare and beautiful com- 
plexion, and with a head which she carried like a young 
queen. Such a metamorphosis had surely never been 
carried out before, thought Lord Bainton, in his sur- 
prise and delight — wherein he showed his ignorance of 
the curious and complex nature of female children ; for 
often the awkwardest and ugliest girls turn with a mys- 


A HARD LESSON. 25 

terious suddenness into the handsomest and gracefullest 
of women. 

What a fool he had been, to be sure, to neglect her 
so long! What a flower she was — to have been allowed 
to blossom unseen till her twenty-first year in this 
wilderness! And then he saw her, too, through the 
glow of her new fortune, and that also helped, no doubt, 
to turn the scales in her favor in his mind. 

“My dear,” he said, bending low over her slender, 
long-fingered hand, and raising it with old-fashioned 
gallantry to his lips, “ you positively amaze me ! What 
fairy godmother has turned the ugly little girl I re- 
member into the charming young woman I see before 
me now?” 

No one in her whole life had ever told Helen that 
she was “ charming ” before. Miss Fairbrother never 
mentioned beauty in a woman, save to remark, with 
disparaging contempt, that it was “ a snare ” ; while the 
lover, who should have worshipped at her shrine, had 
a fixed idea that a woman should be useful and dutiful, 
and that all braidings and adornings of her perishing 
person ought to be religiously eschewed. Frederick 
had kept any admiration he might have secretly 
felt for Helen’s personal appearance strictly to him- 
self — no doubt lest he should corrupt her mind with 
vanity and so render her unfit to imbibe his own im- 
proving words with due and becoming humility. 

No sweet and flattering words had ever fallen upon 
Helen’s ears from the lips of the man who had chosen 
her to be his. Words which endear a man to a woman’s 
heart, even though they be foolish and unreal, because 
by them she learns that, whatever she may be to all 
the world besides, she is at least fair in his eyes. 

The old man bowing over her hand was the first who 


2 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


had ever told her that she posessed the power to please 
by her face alone. 

She threw a rapid, frightened glance from one of her 
jailers to the other. Miss Fairbrother looked disap- 
proving, but somewhat helpless, while Frederick was 
fairly and frankly angry. Poor Helen felt she would 
be made to pay for this by-and-by. 

“You — you are too kind,” she stammered to her 
guardian. “ I am afraid you — you flatter me.” 

“Not at all, my dear; not at all! A great many 
people will tell you what I do. If I had only known 
what my ward was like! But there, I am the loser! 
and now I must make up for lost time. I am the 
bearer of a very important piece of news for you, my 
dear Helen,” and then catching sight for the first time 
of Frederick Warne’s shambling figure in the back- 
ground, Lord Bainton turned to Miss Fairbrother, still 
retaining Helen’s hand in his own, “ I should like to 
see my ward alone, or with you only present. Miss 
Fairbrother, perhaps you will ask this gentleman if he 
will kindly leave us?” 

There was a moment of embarrassment. Miss Fair- 
brother rose to her feet. She trembled a little. 

“ I ought to introduce you, Frederick. This, Lord 
Bainton, is my dear nephew, Frederick Warne.” 

Lord Bainton bowed. “ Delighted to make Mr. 
Warne’s acquaintance,” he said, with a certain impa- 
tient hauteur. “ I am sure Mr. Warne will understand 
that I have a communication of a private nature to 
make to my ward — and that he will kindly ” 

“You can have nothing to say to Miss Dacre, my 
lord, which does not concern me,” interrupted Warne 
sternly. “ Miss Dacre’s affairs are mine.” 

Lord Bainton lifted a double eyeglass, which depended 


A HARD LESSON. 


27 


from a thin gold chain over his waistcoat, and fixing it 
upon his nose, he looked at Frederick Warne. 

This action of his had been known to have an exceed- 
ingly disconcerting effect upon its subject. Frederick, 
probably because he was a schoolmaster, was not at all 
disconcerted. He merely turned to his aunt. 

“ Have you explained my position to Lord Bainton, 
aunt?” he inquired. 

“ No, not yet, my dear. I — I have not had time. I 
was about to do so, but — ” Helen had never seen Miss 
Fairbrother so upset and so nervous. 

“ I will explain things myself to you, my lord,” said 
Frederick, turning to Lord Bainton. “ The fact is, I 
am engaged to your ward, and intend to be married to 
her at Christmas.” 

Lord Bainton was a thorough man of the world. To say 
that he was not taken aback — and very considerably so — 
would be untrue ; but he was gifted with great resources, 
and to knock nuder before such a blow as this' was not 
in him. Moreover, he had the wisdom of the serpent, 
and was not going to waste his breath in superfluous 
indignation. He settled his eyeglasses more firmly 
upon his nose, and replied : 

. “Oh, indeed? — very kii^d of you, I am sure.” Fred- 
erick in sober earnest believed that it was very kind 
indeed of him to express himself ready to marry such 
an insignificant person as Helen Dacre, so that Lord 
Bainton’ s sneer did not wither him up in the way 
which that great man intended it to do. He replied 
with a proud modesty : 

“ Having given my word to Miss Dacre, and being 
now in a position to marry, I am, of course, ready to 
fulfil my promises toward her. ” 

“Most kind of you!” repeated Lord Bainton fer- 


28 


A HARD LESSON. 


vently. “ There is, however, I might remind you, sir, a 
slight formality which you seem to have overlooked. 
I am Miss Dacre ’s guardian, and until she is twenty- 
one, Miss Dacre cannot marry without my consent. 
Miss Fairbrother has not thought fit to inform me of 
this interesting intention of yours. ” 

“ Indeed, indeed, Lord Bainton,” cried the poor lady 
in much distress, “ I never for one moment supposed 
that you would disapprove of my nephew, or with- 
hold your consent to Helen’s marriage to him. He 
is a most excellent and high-principled young man — 
who bears, I assure you, an umblemished character — 
and, of course, as things were — ” 

“ Yes, my dear madam. — no doubt; but as things are, 
all such arrangements must necessarily be set aside. 
Mr. — Mr. Warne? — ah, yes, Mr. Warne will under- 
stand, I am sure, that things cannot be so satisfactorily 
settled for him as he seems to anticipate, when I inform 
him thatf Miss Dacre has been left a large sum of money, 
and now holds a totally different position in the world 
to that which she has hitherto done.” 

Helen uttered a little cry. She turned from one to 
the other, with a bewildered air, for a moment or two. 
She turned very pale, and the room seemed to whirl 
round with her. 

Lord Bainton pressed her hand and smiled reassur- 
ingly at her. “ There is nothing to alarm you, my 
dear. But your responsibilities are now increased. 
You must think things a little over before I can allow 
you to bind yourself to this gentleman. You must see 
the world. I have come to take you away. I want to 
introduce you to my sister, Lady Camilla Greyson. 
You must mix a little in society, and learn to know 
your own mind.” 


A HARD LESSON. 


2 9 


“No mixing in society, no knowledge of the world, 
ought to suffice to alter your duty toward me, Helen,” 
said Wame, in a voice hoarse with unwonted agitation. 
“ You have promised to marry me. I was ready to take 
you with nothing, or next to nothing. Wealth can 
make no difference to you — your duty is the same — ” 

“ We will leave duty out of the question, if you please, 
Mr. Warne,” said Lord Bainton coldly. Then turning 
with a smile toward Helen, he drew her kindly to- 
ward him. 

“ My dear child, you shall do exactly as you like. If 
you prefer to stay with your friends here, you shall, of 
course, do so. On the other hand, if you go upstairs 
now and pack up your box, I will wait for you till you 
are ready, and I will take you back to London with me. 
I have sundry plans for your future life in my mind; 
and, in the first instance, I wish to introduce you to my 
sister, who will meet us in town to-morrow. Come; 
which will you do — stay here? or go with me?” 

Helen stood with downcast eyes and a beating heart. 
Her color went and came. She looked a picture of 
charming irresolution. She was not really irresolute a 
bit. She had made up her mind instantly. 

She was rich ! What a world opened out before her 
at the very word! Life, and its unknown pleasures 
and delights — the life she had longed to taste — the joys 
she had read of in books, but had often thought were 
never to be hers! And freedom, too — freedom from 
drudgery and dulness and hard work ! Oh ! what a 
great and wonderful thing was this money that was to 
bring her all this ! And what a veritable fairy prince 
was this delightful old gentleman, who had come to 
carry her away into fairyland! Only she must not 
seem unkind or ungrateful. So, though her eyes shone 


30 


A HARD LESSON. 


and her cheeks glowed with delight, it was in the 
demurest voice in the world that she answered at last — 
“You must not think me unkind, Frederick, or 
ungrateful to you, dear Miss Fairbrother, but ” — putting 
her hand timidly into her guardian’s — “but, if you 
please, I should like to go with you, Lord Bainton.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Late in the afternoon of a still, gray day in the fol- 
lowing January, two ladies were seated, silently, one 
on either side of the hearth, in the oak-panelled hall of 
an old country house in Meadowshire. Although it 
was nearly five o’clock, and quite dark out of doors, 
they had, as yet, no other light save the warm glow of 
the flickering fire between them, which cast fantastic 
shadows upon the deer’s antlers and ancient weapons 
that hung upon the sombre walls, upon the tiger skins 
and eastern rugs stretched upon the polished floor, and 
upon the quaint cabinets and bureaus which were 
ranged at intervals around the room. At the farther 
end, opposite the fireplace, a wide staircase, with a 
heavily carved oak balustrade, stretched dimly upward 
into the gloom above ; while two figures in armor, one 
on either side, at the base of it, seemed to keep watch 
over the stillness, and harmonized weirdly with the 
old-world surroundings over which they presided. 

Between the two ladies, whose dresses reflected the 
firelight, but whose faces were in the shadow, a little 
modem tea-table, set out with pink-and- white cups and 
saucers, had been placed ; but this frugal meal was evi- 
dently quite over, for the cups were empty, and all the 
bread and butter eaten up. 

Presently, from some shadowy corner behind them, 
where a tall French marqueterie clock had stood ticking 
life solemnly away for generations, five o’clock rang 

31 


32 


A HARD LESSON. 


out, with clear and bell-like chimes, into the stillness of 
the house. 

“Five o’clock!” exclaimed the lady to the right of 
the fire, sitting up a little in her chair, so that the red 
light caught her face, which was small and fair and 
delicate. “ How you do love this owl’s light, Camilla! 
How silent we have been ! — will they not soon be here?” 

“Not for another half hour,” answered the other, in 
a deep, full voice. “ Although, perhaps, we had better 
have the lamps, and I can order some fresh tea to be 
made for them,” and Lady Camilla put forth her hand 
to touch the bell. 

“ Do they come only from town to-day?” 

“No; straight through from Paris.” 

“ And what is she like?” 

“ Well, you know, I have only seen her once. It was 
in September. My brother telegraphed to me to meet 
him in town. I went up, and found them at the Alex- 
andria Hotel — the house in Portman Square was shut 
up. He had just brought her up from the school where 
she had been living. I only stayed the night. Bainton 
wanted me to take her off his hands — so like a man, you 
know ; anything tc save themselves trouble. It annoyed 
me at the time. I thought it so selfish of him and I 
refused. Now, I wish — !” and she rounded off the 
sentence with a sigh. 

“You wish that you had kept the game in your own 
hands?’ suggested Mrs. Torrington, with a little laugh. 

“Exactly,” replied her hostess, without, however, a 
shadow of laugh in her answer. 

The servants came in with the lamps — the old hall 
became illumined with a mellow radiance. When the 
men had removed the tea things and had retired, Mrs. 
Torrington repeated, with gentle persistence : 


A HARD LESSON. 


33 


“ Well, but what was the girl like? Is she pretty ?” 

“ Not exactly. Although she has fine eyes and a 
good figure ; it is more a look of distinction. ” 

“ Is not that strange, as she is a nobody?” 

“Not altogether. Colonel Dacre was a man of 
excellent family, although who his wife was, is more 
than I can tell you.” 

There was another little silence. Mrs. Torrington, 
who was a pretty little woman of about five -and- thirty, 
with a pink-and-white rosebud face, and fair fluffy 
curls, which made her look much younger than her age, 
warmed her small toes reflectively, holding them out 
one after the other to the blazing logs upon the hearth. 

“And you think that Bainton will — ?” she began at 
last, slowly and inquiringly. 

Lady Camilla sprang to her feet with an exclamation 
of impatience. 

“ How can I tell what Bainton will or will not do, 
my dear? I only know that he is infatuated with the 
girl ! He has devoted himself to her for three months ; 
giving up his hunting in order to take her about half 
over Europe. The Wiltons travelled with them for 
propriety’s sake, I suppose ; though why, when a man 
is sixty years of age, he may not go about with a girl 
of twenty, unattended by a chaperone , is more than I can 
understand. And then his letters about her! You 
should see them — pages of ravings! I never knew 
Bainton take so much trouble, or get so excited about 
anything in petticoats before. It is hard, when I’ve 
looked upon him as a confirmed bachelor for years, and 
he almost told me that Teddie was to be his heir — as, 
of course, he ought to be. ” 

“ Miss Dacre has thirty thousand pounds, lias she not? 
Your brother can’t want her money — he has plenty.” 

3 


34 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Oh, it’s not her money, of course.” 

“ Still, it seems a pity not to keep it in the family. 
Can’t you marry her to Teddie?” 

“ Don’t, be foolish, Dora. Teddie is sixteen. Of 
course, if he had only been older, it would have been 
the thing to do. But, thank heaven, the case is not yet 
hopeless. That is why — ” 

“ That is why you have offered the heiress a home?” 

“ Yes. And naturally Bainton wont stay here long — 
he and Tom don’t get on, you know. When I get her 
here alone, I shall probably be able to manage some- 
thing. In fact, I have a little idea already. ” 

“ Indeed!” Mrs. Torrington’s heart began to beat. 
She knew quite well what Lady Camilla’s little idea 
was. 

The elder woman cast a furtive glance at her. Dora 
Torrington was her husband’s cousin. She was a 
widow, and she was poor. Lady Camilla had always 
liked her and been kind to her. When Dora had 
nowhere else to go, Old Park was always open to her. 
But in many ways Lady Camilla disapproved of her 
cousin by marriage. There were things about her life 
she hated, and would gladly have seen altered. Yet, 
somehow, Dora, though she was so small, and fair, and 
childish-looking, and though she was a good fifteen years 
and more younger than her own mature self, was a 
person with whom it was very difficult to interfere. 
That was why Lady Camilla looked at her askance now, 
and hesitated to say what was in her mind. Mrs. Tor- 
rington would not help her. She sat obstinately silent, 
staring into the flames. Although her heart beat, she 
was outwardly quite calm and composed.- Of course 
she knew what was coming. Had they not been fen- 
cing round and about this subject the whole afternoon? 


A HARD LESSON. 


35 


As Lady Camilla meant to speak, she had to do so at 
last unassisted. 

“ I thought about Gilbert Nugent,” she said. 

“ Naturally you did,” replied Dora, still staring into 
the fire. 

Lady Camilla breathed a little more freely. 

“ Well, my dear, I am sure I am very glad you say 
so. We all feel that poor Gilbert was badly treated, 
and that this money of old Ashworth’s ought to have 
been his. I really do think it would be the most natural 
thing in the world if we could bring about a marriage 
between him and the girl who had defrauded him of 
his fortune.” 

“You are so clever, Camilla! The scheme is quite 
too charming! I only see two objections to it. To 
begin with, Gilbert hates girls.” 

“Oh! my dear,” laughed Lady Camilla, “that sort of 
phase never lasts. Where a new influence arises in a 
man’s life, those kind of fancies don’t go for much — if 
that is all !” 

“No; it is not all. You forget that I mentioned 
another objection.” 

“ So you did. What is it?” 

“ That Gilbert Nugent belongs to me.” 

Lady Camilla positively stamped. “ How angry you 
do make me, Dora, by such a remark as that! How 
can a man, who is neither your husband nor your lover, 
nor even your cousin, be said to ‘belong’ to you? In 
what sense, pray, does he ‘belong’ to you?” 

Mrs. Torrington laughed aloud. “You will be the 
death of me, Camilla. Pray don’t look so shocked. I 
am going to say something far worse. I have got a 
lease of Gilbert Nugent — a lease 'of ten years !” 

“How perfectly disgusting! I do not understand 


36 


A HARD LESSON. 


your meaning in the very slightest. Perhaps, indeed, 
I had better not inquire. ” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed you may. I am going to explain 
to you. It is perfectly proper, I assure you. ” 

“Go on,” said Lady Camilla, coldly and severely. 

“ Seven years ago — ” began her cousin, 

“ That is, when Gilbert Nugent was twenty-one, 
and the breath was only just out of poor Jim Torring- 
ton’s body.” 

“ Exactly. Pray don’t interrupt me. Seven years 
ago, Gilbert Nugent gave me a written promise on 
paper — which I possess now — that he would not marry 
anybody for the space of ten years, on the chance of 
either of us coming into enough money to enable us to 
marry one another. After that period has elapsed, he 
is free to do as he likes.” 

“How thoroughly ridiculous! Do you call yourself 
engaged to him, then?” 

“ Certainly not. It’s not an engagement. It is a 
covenant. ” 

“ But you will never have any money — either of 
you — now that his only chance is lost, and his uncle 
has left him nothing!” 

“ Never. You are perfectly right.” 

“ Then you will never marry him?” 

“ Never. I do not expect to. Only there are three 
years more of our lease to run, and I don’t mean to let 
him go till they are expired!” answered Mrs. Torring- 
ton, with a little shrug of her shoulders. 

“ Well, of all the cruel, selfish, wicked arrangements 
I ever heard of !” exclaimed Lady Camilla indig- 
nantly. “ Of what possible use can it be to you to 
keep that wretched young man bound to you in such a 
fashion?” 


A HARD LKSSON. 


37 


“Of every use. Gilbert is handsome and popular. 
Although he has barely sufficient income to keep him- 
self in clothes, he goes everywhere. He drives and 
rides other men’s horses, shoots other men’s game, 
fishes in other men’s rivers, and does it all better than 
anybody else. I like having such a man in attendance 
on me, for when I am present he always devotes him- 
self to me — ” 

“And yet he is not in love with you!” 

“ Not in the least — now. But he is fond of me — 
and — he is of use to me.” 

“ And for that you would stand in his light, and pre- 
vent him from making a happy marriage?” 

“ Of course. Why not? Am I not as important in 
the economy of creation as Gilbert Nugent? Why 
should I put myself on one side for him?” 

Then Lady Camilla Greyson made one of the truest 
observations she had ever given utterance to in her life. 

“ Then, my dear,” she said, “you certainly cannot 
love him very much.” 

“ Perhaps not,” answered Dora a little bitterly, after 
a moment’s pause. “ What is the use of wasting love 
on a man? One gives them gold — they pay one back 
in silver-gilt! We self-abnegate ourselves in a life’s 
devotion — and they tire of us in a few years ! Oh, my 
dear Camilla, you are older than I am, but I have lived 
far longer and learned far more ! Your dear, good Tom 
never, I am sure, gave you a moment’s anxiety. You 
do not know what it is to harden and harden day by 
day, year by year, till one is as hard as granite!” 

“ But, Dora, that is very wrong.” 

“Very likely. Everything is wrong. Life is wrong. 
Love is more wrong than all else. One ought to begin 
where one ends — in impassibility!” 


38 


A HARD LESSON. 


There was a moment's silence. The tall clock ticked 
on evenly and drearily. The logs fell in with a little 
crash. Lady Camilla thought about Lord Bainton’s 
infatuation for Helen Dacre and her Eton boy’s threat- 
ened prospects, and Dora Torrington sat looking for a 
moment dumbly and blindly into the dead ashes of her 
lost youth. 

Perhaps an angel had passed by, touching her soul 
with a passing warmth ; but, if so, the holy visitant’s 
stay was short. With a little shiver she roused her- 
self; the dream light went out of her blue eyes, the 
sad and bitter curve from her rose-tinted lips, she shook 
her head as though to banish unavailing thought, and 
turned gayly to her cousin. 

“ So you see, Camilla, it will be wise to leave our 
mutual friend out of your calculations. I can’t pos- 
sibly help you in making matches for Gilbert Nugent!” 

“ It is very selfish of you, Dora, and very useless, 
too,” replied Lady Camilla, crossly. “Because if Gil- 
bert falls in love with Miss Dacre, or with anybody 
else, your written promise will become so much waste 
paper. When the temptation comes to him then you 
will see.” 

“ Oh, Gilbert is very loyal. He never walks into 
temptation, and I take great care never to send him 
into it.” 

“Ah, well; we shall see next week,” remarked Lady 
Camilla, airily. 

“ How do you mean — next week?” 

“ He is coming here. I have invited him. ” 

“ To meet this heiress?” 

“ No ; to meet you, of course !” was the mocking 
answer. 

There followed a moment during which Dora Tor- 


A HARD LESSON. 


39 


rington hated her cousin’s wife with all her heart and 
soul. 

But before she could find words to express her anger 
and indignation, there came a sound of carriage wheels 
advancing rapidly toward the house. 

“Here they are!” cried Lady Camilla, springing to 
her feet ; then, holding out her hand to her companion, 
“Come, Dora, don’t be cross. I dare say Nugent 
wont like the girl at all ; only do help me to turn Bain- 
ton’s mind from her. Flirt with him yourself if you 
like. Only think what a calamity it would be if he 
married, and poor Ted were to be cut out ! Do, like a 
good girl, stand by me.” 

“Why should I? Do your worst,” answered Dora 
somewhat tragically. 

“On the contrary, I shall do my best,” replied her 
hostess. “ Ah ! my dearest brother, here you are at 
last.” She hurried forward to the open door which the 
servants had flung widely open, and through which 
there entered Lord Bainton, in a thick coat, with a 
travelling cap tied over his ears, followed closely by a 
tall and slender girl, wrapped in a long rich fur mantle. 
Her face was a little pale ; her large eyes peered from 
the darkness without a little eagerly and anxiously into 
the warmly lit hall ; and at her heart there was a vague 
tremor, which she could not account for or understand, 
at finding herself at last at the home of her guardian’s 
sister. 

Thus it was that Helen Dacre on that chill January 
evening crossed the threshold of the house where the 
story of her life was destined to be played out. 


CHAPTER V. 


When Helen looked out of her bedroom window the 
next morning she saw before her the undulating slopes 
of the park, dotted with fine trees and crowned with 
the brown and leafless woods which surrounded the old 
house. 

Old Park, like three fourths of the Tudor houses of 
England, lay low in the shelter of a gentle hollow, 
with round, swelling hills on every side of it. It was 
a solid-looking house, forming three sides of a square, 
and built of gray stone, with mullioned windows and 
heavy chimney stacks. All round it were terraced gar- 
dens, divided into partitions by close-trimmed yew 
hedges, cut at intervals into quaint shapes of birds and 
beasts. The gardens were empty now, and the brown 
beds, denuded of their summer glories, lay dreary and 
lifeless beneath the leaden winter skies. A dull mist 
hung over the distant woods and in the hollows of the 
park. Helen, who had heard much about the beauty 
and grandeur of Lady Camilla’s home, drew back from 
the window with a sense of disappointment. She 
recalled the blue skies of Italy, beneathr which she had 
been lately wandering as in fairyland, and wished her- 
self back there ; and she shivered a little as she turned 
her eyes away from the misty landscape. Curiously 
enough, she thought at that moment of something 
which for nearly four months she had cleverly con- 
trived almost to forget altogether. She thought about 
Frederick Warne. Her life was so entirely altered 

40 


A HARD LESSON. 


41 


that she had succeeded lately in forgetting him alto- 
gether The excitement of her sudden access of 
wealth — the rapid changes of scene she had under- 
gone — the surprise and delight of finding herself no 
longer a despised, dependent pupil-teacher, but a person 
of importance to whom many people were attentive and 
all were kind and flattering — had produced a great and 
wonderful change in Helen’s mind and character. It 
seemed to her that she had realized at one stroke all 
the vague and suppressed aspirations of her girlhood. 
Like some earth- crawling worm she had shed her poor 
‘and humble skin, and had emerged, as though by mira- 
cle, into the radiant brilliancy of a beautiful butterfly. 
When she thought about it, it seemed to her that she 
was not the same person at all, but that her very iden- 
tity was gone and that she had been transformed into 
somebody else. 

As to Frederick Warne, he had faded into nothing- 
ness. Lord Bainton had never spoken to her about 
him. With the worldly wisdom for which he was 
remarkable, the old man had merely observed to her 
as they drove away together from Aberdare House — 

“ Now, my dear child, you have left all that kind of 
thing ” — indicating the schoolhouse and its inhabitants 
with a backward jerk of his yellow thumb — “ behind 
you for ever. You are to begin a new life altogether 
from this very day. ” 

And he never alluded in the most distant fashion to 
the unlucky classical master or to her unfortunate posi- 
tion with regard to him. 

So she had done what was simplest, and easiest, and 
pleasantest to herself about him — she had forgotten 
him. Why — on this first day at her new English home, 
at which it had been arranged that she was to spend 


42 


A HARD LESSON. 


six months of the year, and the remaining six months 
under the care of her guardian — why the thought of 
Warne should have suddenly obtruded itself unbidden, 
like a vague omen of evil into her soul, it was impos- 
sible to say. 

When she came down the wide oak staircase into the 
hall, where she had been received on her arrival, she 
saw, standing at the bottom of it, lolling irreverently 
back against one of the stately knights in armor, a per- 
son to whom she had not been introduced on the pre- 
vious evening. She had shaken hands with the master 
of the house, a silent, gray -haired man who had pre- 
sided at the dinner table without joining much in its 
conversation, and, as in a dream, she had answered the 
numerous questions of Lady Camilla Greyson and her 
cousin, Mrs. Torrington, whose face somehow reminded 
of something or some one to whom she could not put a 
name. But this boy who stood at the bottom of the 
staircase had certainly not been at the dinner table. 
Helen had been so tired with her long journey that she 
had thankfully retired to her room as soon as the meal 
had ended, and, indeed, all through it she was so worn 
out and sleepy that she had scarcely taken in all the 
details of her new surroundings. Still, she was quite 
sure she had not seen this particular inmate of the 
house before. 

He was a tall, loosely built lad of sixteen. He had 
curly hair, a wide mouth, a funny little snub nose, and 
a ruddy countenance freely sprinkled over with freck- 
les, out of which twinkled two small and somewhat 
comically screwed-up greenish gray eyes. He was 
dressed in a rough tweed suit, and wore breeches and 
gaiters. At his feet crouched a long-haired, liver- 
colored spaniel, looking up with inquiring and inter- 


A HARD LESSON. 


43 


ested eyes at his master, who was curiously engaged in 
tying a pocket handkerchief tightly around the small 
middle of a diminutive black-and-tan toy terrier. This 
animal — certainly the smallest of its breed that it was 
possible to imagine — was whining piteously and strug- 
gling vehemently, as though in dread of impending 
torture. Helen stopped short, half-way down the stair- 
case, in order to watch what was going to happen. 
When the youth had firmly knotted the handkerchief 
round the struggling little creature, he reached up to 
the iron-mailed warrior above him and proceeded to 
tie the two ends of it round the outstretched arm of the 
figure in armor in such fashion that the unlucky toy 
terrier, howling and yelping with terror, dangled in 
mid-air over his head. Then the boy laughed aloud. 

“ There, you little brute ! That will teach you to 
gnaw up my fishing lines! Wait till your fond missus 
comes down, my little dear, and see what she will say 
when she sees you swung up on high!” 

“How horrid!” cried somebody behind him. He 
turned, and saw H3len, with crimson cheeks and flash- 
ing eyes, swooping down like an avenging angel upon 
his handiwork. 

“ Hallo — shut up that ! I say — what are you going 
to do?” 

“I am going to untie this poor little beast,” cried 
Helen, indignantly, her fingers trembling so much that 
she had some difficulty in finding the knot of the hand- 
kerchief to which she had to stretch up at arms’ length 
above her head. “I don’t know who you are,” she 
went on breathlessly, “ but of all the horrid, cruel, hate- 
ful boys I ever met, I think you are the worst.” 

“ I am Ted Greyson,” said the young gentleman, but 
he made no effort to stop her autocratic proceedings, 


44 


A HARD LESSON. 


and only stood watching her in a somewhat awestruck 
silence. 

“ Well, then, Ted Greyson, you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself !” said Helen, furiously. 

'‘Well, you are a pretty good-cheeked one, Miss 
Dacre, to tell me that the first time you’ve ever seen 
me. Besides, it just shows what a lot you girls know, 
to call me cruel It doesn’t hurt the little brute one 
bit — it only frightens him.” 

Helen had set the unlucky toy terrier free by this 
time, and was soothing its whimperings by sundry 
coaxings and caressings. “ What do you frighten it for 
then?” she asked him, still hot with her righteous 
wrath. “What harm has it done you — poor little 
beast?” 

“Only gnawed up my new fishing tackle! But it’s 
not that so much made me do it as to spite Dora Tor- 
rington. It’s her dog, and she is such a beast’ I — I — 
didn’t mean to be cruel,” added the boy, a little falter- 
ingly. Helen looked at him. It was not a bad face by 
any means, although it was an ugly one. There was, 
in fact, something honest and straightforward about it, 
and now that he looked rueful and regretful she felt her 
dislike and horror of his deed of cruelty fast melting 
away. 

“It is always cruel to torment dumb animals,” she 
began, a little formally, with a faint echo of some of 
old Miss Fairbrother’s reproofs in her voice — and then 
she looked again into the queer pinched-up face and 
smiled. “ But if you are sorry you did it ” 

“No, by Jove! I’m not sorry one bit!” cried this 
curious boy, with a sudden and surprising change of 
countenance — “ I would do it again this minute just to 
see you look in a rage again as you did when I first saw 


A HARD LESSON. 


45 


you! By Jove, you did look a stunner — you don’t look 
half so pretty now,” he added, with uncompromising 
veracity. 

Helen laughed outright. “ If that is all, I dare say 
you will have the opportunity of making me in a rage, 
as you call it, lots of times more — certainly if you tor- 
ment animals. ” 

“ I never do. I never will again. I only wanted to 
be revenged on Dora because she set the beast on to my 
fishing tackle — shut him up in my room all night on 
purpose, I believe — she hates me so! But there, I’ll 
let her dog alone — I really will — if you will only be 
friends and make it up. Won’t you shake hands?” 

It is said that the best friendships are those that have 
been inaugurated by a quarrel. 

Ted held out his hand timidly. It was a boy’s hand, 
red and rough, and disfigured by many a cut and scar. 
One of the fingers was bent, having been broken at 
football, and of another the nail was black and discol- 
ored. Helen could not help smiling as she resigned 
her own slim, taper-fingered hand into the firm and 
hearty grip that closed upon it. 

“Yes,” she said, kindly, “I will be friends, cer- 
tainly.” 

And thus was the bargain between them struck and 
sealed ; never on either side to be repented of. Even 
on that first morning she was not sorry for her new 
ally. 

Breakfast at Old Park was a desultory meal ; the peo- 
ple straggled down to it one by one, and secluded them- 
selves in a gloomy abstraction in their letters or the 
newspapers. 

In some houses — and country houses chiefly — it ap- 
pears to be the rule that everybody shall be systemati- 


4 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


cally in a bad temper, and display the worst of manners 
during the first meal of the day. 

It was Helen Dacre’s first experience of this singular 
phenomenon. 

It surprised and depressed her to be greeted with a 
brief “mornin',” thrown at her with averted eyes by 
the master of the house ere he buried himself from 
view behind the morning papers propped up against 
the sugar-basin in front of him, while Lady Camilla 
only extended a couple of cold fingers to her, murmur- 
ing, “Help yourself, I hope you slept well,” and fell 
upon her letters without seeming to expect any reply. 
Presently in strolled Mrs. Torrington, complaining of 
neuralgia, .and declaring herself incapable of eating; 
and lastly Lord Bainton — to whose habitual moroseness 
in the morning hours she was already accustomed — 
who settled himself in absolute silence opposite to her. 
Everybody foraged for their own food. After the fash- 
ion of wild animals, they prowled round the table with 
discontented faces, lifting up dish covers and carrying 
off odd scraps of toast and butter, which they conveyed 
away, each to his own corner. 

Helen Dacre, who was young and healthy, and 
blessed with a fine and vigorous appetite, felt that 
without Ted she would certainly have starved; but 
Ted, too, was young and hungry, and brought her 
everything that she wanted, so that this bond of union 
between them cemented their new-formed alliance. 

“ Has any one seen my beautiful Tiny?” inquired 
Dora Torrington presently, in the midst of a profound 
silence. Then she glanced at Teddie, who grinned 
broadly but answered nothing. Helen told her that 
her dog was in its basket before the hall fire, a piece of 
information which she received with a subdued sigh. 


A HARD LESSON. 


47 


Helen could not help watching her furtively. She felt 
certain that she had seen her somewhere before — the 
pretty “ mignonette” face with its pink-and-white color- 
ing, the tiny red mouth, the soft fluffy hair that stood 
out like a crown from her small head — all brought back 
something, some unfinished impression out of the past. 
But where,, and how, and when had she seen it, or its 
similitude, before? For the life of her she could not 
remember. 

“ I wish Helen to receive her first riding-lesson to- 
day,” remarked Lord Bainton, speaking as one does 
whose word is law. “ I understand that her new horse 
arrived yesterday, and I wish her to begin as soon as 
possible. Is there any one here who can teach her, 
Camilla’” 

“ I am sure I don’t know. I dare say one of the men 
could go out with her. You must ask Tom.” 

“Tom,” when his attention was called to the subject, 
looked exceedingly cross, but murmured, as though un- 
der pressure of circumstances he was powerless to re- 
sist, that the men were all very busy with the hunters just 
now, but that he would go round to the stables after 
breakfast and see what could be done. 

“You needn’t trouble, father,” here spoke up the 
son of the house; “/ am going to teach Miss Dacre to 
ride.” 

Mrs. Torrington looked up with a laugh. 

“ Good gracious! Since when?” she ejaculated across 
the table at him. 

“Since when? What?” retorted Ted, glaring at her 
fiercely with a very red face. 

“ Since when have you turned lady’s man? I thought 
you hated women, Ted?” 

“So I do — some women,” replied the boy, markedly. 


4 8 


A HARD LESSON. 


Lady Camilla looked up quickly. 

“Thank you, Ted. If you will go out for a little 
while with our guest to-day, as your uncle wishes her 
to begin at once, you will be making yourself very use- 
ful. Soon ” — with a swift glance at Dora — “ I shall be 
able to confide her, I hope, to a more efficient in- 
structor.” 

“I am really sorry to give so much trouble,” said 
poor Helen, blushing. “ I can easily wait, if Lord 
Bainton does not mind.” 

“ Oh, it’s no trouble, my dear. Mr. Nugent, who is 
coming here, will, I am sure, be delighted to teach you. 
He is a splendid horseman, and on non-hunting days 
will enjoy taking you out.” 

“ Who is Mr. Nugent, pray?” But nobody answered 
her question. Then Helen became suddenly conscious 
of something — some undercurrent of comprehension 
among them all, which she could not understand, and 
from which she was shut out. 

Mr. Greyson, at the foot of the table, laughed immod- 
erately, and said it was as good as a play. 

Lord Bainton frowned, and remarked that Nugent 
was a lucky beggar to be given such a chance, while 
Dora Torrington, with a little sneer, said to him in an 
audible whisper that really dear Camilla was quite 
over-reaching herself on this occasion. Even Ted 
looked steadily down into his plate and seemed confused. 

Helen looked bewilderedly from one to the other. 
What was it all about? Why had that name acted like 
a subtle electricity upon these people among whom 
her life was cast? • 

“Teddie,” she said afterward in the hall, when 
breakfast was over, “what did they all mean? Why 
did Mrs. Torrington — — ” 


A HARD LESSON. 


49 


“ Never you mind what Dora says. She is a cat ! A 
demon-cat !” answered Teddie, with angry and spiteful 
emphasis. “ Don’t listen to her!” 

“ But who is Mr. Nugent? — and why is he to teach me 
to ride?” 

“ He is not going to teach you to ride. I am !” replied 
Teddie, with dignity. 

“ Well, but who is he?” persisted Helen. 

“ He? — he is a brick!” answered her young partisan, 
warmly. “ You’ll like him. He’s a brick. ” And more 
than that she could not extract from him. 


4 


CHAPTER VI. 


To her dying day Helen never forgot the condition 
of abject terror in which she stood ready equipped in a 
faultlessly fitting habit at the open front door and 
watched the rapid — far too rapid— approach of the ani- 
mal which her guardian had ordered to be bought for 
her in London. 

Helen had never been on a horse’s back in her life — 
a fact which, although it had not been a subject of re- 
gret to anybody before — now seemed to fill the minds 
of everybody about her with a dismay amounting 
almost to consternation. That she should not know 
how to ride was a calamity which Lord Bainton had 
never ceased to deplore since he had taken her away 
from Aberdare House ‘on that memorable September 
afternoon now nearly four months ago. Their foreign 
travels, which Helen would have gladly prolonged, 
were cut short for no other reason than that she might 
be brought home to be instructed in this great and ap- 
parently indispensable accomplishment. 

“You must certainly manage to see a little hunting 
before the season is over,” Lord Bainton had said to 
her. 

‘ Hunting! don’t speak of it!” cried Helen, laughing. 
“ I should tumble off!” 

“ Pray do not allude to such a thing!” replied the old 
man, with grave disapproval. “ You will have to learn 
how to stick on. Dear, dear! a fine girl like you not 
to know how to sit upon a horse! It’s inconceivable!” 

50 


A HARD LESSON. 


51 


“ I don’t see how or where I could have learnt in my 
position at Miss Fairbrother’s.” 

“Well, we must put all that to rights as soon as 
possible. Your father was a good horseman. It is 
probably in your blood — it ought to come to you by 
nature.” 

But Helen did not feel in the least as if nature meant 
to be of the slightest use to her as she stood — if the 
truth must be owned — trembling in every limb upon 
the steps of the front door. 

The whole party had assembled to see her mount, 
and when Ted, on a big bay horse of his father’s, came 
round the corner of the shrubbery from the stables, fol- 
lowed by a groom leading a very handsome chestnut 
horse, she felt as if she would dearly love to run back 
into the house and lock herself up in her bedroom for 
the remainder of the day. 

For the first few moments she enjoyed with gratitude 
a short reprieve, for everybody gathered about the 
chestnut, admiring and discussing his points and re- 
puted virtues. Lord Bainton had commissioned a 
friend who was a good judge of horseflesh to purchase 
for his ward the best and safest lady’s hunter that 
money could buy and England could produce. And his 
friend had faithfully fulfilled his orders. 

Sunflower apparently realized everything that the 
fondest fancy had required of him — he had carried a lady 
regularly to hounds, was said to possess perfect man- 
ners and delightful paces, and was reported to be abso- 
lutely free from vice. 

As in an evil dream, Helen heard them all talking 
him over. They felt his legs all round, they pro- 
nounced his shoulders to be excellent, and his quarters 
beyond compare. His height, breadth, and strength 


5 2 


A HARD LESSON. 


came also under discussion ; and all the time her heart 
was failing and quaking within her. 

“ You like him yourself, do you not?” said Lord Bain- 
ton, turning to her at last. “ What do you think of 
him?” 

“ He is a very pretty color,” was all that poor Helen 
could find to say between her chattering teeth. 

“ More than you are, my dear Miss Dacre,” cried 
Mrs. Torrington, laughing. “Why," you are as white 
as a sheet! What do you think will happen to you? 
Oh, I only wish I had a lovely hunter of my own ! But 
some people don’t value their own luck.” 

Mr. Greyson — who, where a horse was concerned, 
was wont to brighten up in his manner — came forward 
to put her up. She stood as she was told, close to the 
side of the horse, reached up her hand to the pommel, 
and held out her foot. Then came a wild struggle, a 
helpless plunge, a jump that came just a whole minute 
too late — and poor Helen slipped ignominiously down 
again on to the ground. 

Mr. Greyson uttered an exclamation of impatience; 
everybody laughed — Mrs. Torrington loudest of all. 
Helen’s white cheeks had turned crimson with shame 
and mortification ; tears gathered thickly in her eyes. 

“ I shall never get upon its back ! It is so very — very 
tall !” she stammered hopelessly. But here Ted came 
to the rescue. 

“Let me put her up, father; I’m stronger than you 
are,” and, shouldering his parent out of the way, the 
boy came to her side. 

“Oh, yes, you will — it’s very easy, really,” he said, 
reassuringly. “You can’t expect to do things the first 
time you try. Here, give me your foot and spring 
when I tell you. Don’t,” he added, in a whisper, 


A HART) LESSON. 53 

“don't give that beast Dora another chance of laughing 
at you.” 

Whether it was that whisper which aroused her pride 
and put her on her mettle, or whether Ted was really a 
better hand at the business than his father, or whether 
she understood what was expected of her better the sec- 
ond time of trying than she did at first, Helen certainly 
managed to achieve the feat which seemed so impos- 
sible with perfect ease, and vaulted lightly into her 
place in the saddle. 

A little sense of victory came to her at once. Ted 
was delighted. Lord Bainton, who had looked annoyed 
at her first failure, clapped his hands and cried — 

“Bravo, bravo!” while Mrs. Torrington left off 
laughing at her. 

Somehow, directly she was in the saddle, Helen 
found her courage. After a few simple directions as to 
her seat and her reins, they started off at a walk down 
the drive — Ted close by her side, and the groom riding 
behind them. 

“You are perfectly safe, you know,” said Ted con- 
fidently. “I’ll take care of you. You can’t possibly 
come to grief.” 

Whether this was true or no, Helen at all events be- 
lieved it. Her trust and faith in her young cavalier 
were implicit, and she obeyed his instructions humbly 
and scrupulously. 

When they were outside the park Ted told her that she 
was to hold on tight and follow him, and immediately 
put his horse into a canter along the wide grass margin 
of the road. With a little shake of his head the chest- 
nut started forward after him. 

“ Come on — don’t be in a funk,” were the only direc- 
tions Ted gave her — and she obeyed him as to the first 


54 


A HARD LESSON. 


order, and after the first few moments of wild confu- 
sion began, somewhat to her own surprse, to obey the 
second as well. 

Perhaps, as Lord Bainton had told her, the art of it 
was in her blood, and had lain dormant within her all 
these years, awaiting only the opportunity to awake 
into life. It is certain that good horsemanship is an 
inherited thing, and that it runs in some families in a 
remarkable degree ; while in others, do what they will, 
it seems to be entirely left out. 

“Oh, it’s 1 — lovely!” stammered Helen breathlessly, 
when they pulled up after about half-a-mile’s spin along 
the smooth, green turf. “ I had no idea it would be so 
nice.” 

“You like it!” cried Ted, triumphantly. “I knew 
you would. You get on capitally, and sit as square as 
a rock. You’ll do — I’ll teach you in no time. Hold 
your hands a little lower, and catch up your curb a 
little when you let him go — so. Now give him his 
head.” 

And off they started anew. 

And so it was Ted, and not the unknown Mr. Nugent, 
who had the pride and glory of teaching Helen Dacre 
to ride. The lessons were repeated daily, and she 
progressed rapidly. To be sure, she was perfectly 
mounted, and no unlucky accidents occurred to scare 
away her new-born courage ; and Ted was very careful 
of her, and very proud of her, too, for she certainly 
was a most intelligent pupil. Her seat and her hands 
were naturally good, and once confidence came to her 
there seemed little left to teach her. On the fourth 
day she was jumping over hurdles in the field, much 
to her own and her young teacher’s delight. 

Their friendship made rapid strides during these 


A HARD LESSON. 


55 


daily lessons, and Helen often caught herself wondering 
sadly what she would do when the holidays came to an 
end, and Ted went back to school. 

One afternoon they went out as usual for their ride. 
It had been arranged that Helen, specially attended by 
a groom told off to look after her, should make her first 
appearance in the hunting-field the next day. The 
meet was within three miles of Old Park, and all the 
riding portion of the establishment was to be there. 
Ted had given up his hunting for nearly a whole week, 
in order to pursue his course of instruction, and had 
seen his father and uncle ride off together, nearly daily, 
without a pang of envy, . But now he gave it as his 
opinion that Helen could ride to hounds as well as the 
best of them ; and so the morrow was chosen for her 
debut in Meadowshire. 

At lunch, Ted and Helen had so much to say to each 
other about the line of country they were going across 
that afternoon — for they had by this time quite forsaken 
the roads — that they had no time to listen to the con- 
versation of their elders. Yet, as in a dream — which 
came back later to her recollection — Helen did hear 
that the dog- cart was to go to the station to meet the 
5.15 train, and that Mr. Gilbert Nugent was certainly 
expected to arrive by it. 

She did not care at all about Mr. Gilbert Nugent 
now — he did not interest her in the least — he was to 
bear no part in her equestrian education. Ted had 
taught her everything she ought to know, and she 
could learn the rest by herself. She was not only 
young, but, for her years, was preternaturally ignorant of 
the world, and of things which young women often pick 
up almost instinctively. If she had not been, she might 
have remarked the curious sense of expectation which 


5 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


awaited this fresh addition to the party. Lady 
Camilla’s suppressed excitement, and Dora Torring- 
ton’s scarcely concealed agitation, would not have 
escaped an older or a wiser woman; but Helen saw 
nothing beyond Ted’s ugly, friendly face, and had no 
thoughts that did not centre themselves upon Sun- 
flower’s performances over the hedges and ditches, and 
her own nerve and dexterity in getting him across them. 

So they started full of hope and full of young, animal 
spirits, and meanwhile, the dog-cart went duly to the 
station, while the short winter afternoon wore itself 
away. 

The road from the station ran for about a mile and a 
quarter along the side of the railway. The steady old 
mare between the shafts of the high dog-cart had gone 
backward and forward to meet the trains so often 
during the course of her life, that she was pretty well 
hardened to the rush and the roar of the locomotive 
along the line, yet even she made a dart forward, for 
about fifty yards, as the London express, snorting red 
fire and steam, thundered up behind her out of the 
darkness of a particularly dark evening. 

“Steady, old lady, steady!” said Nugent, drawing 
her in with a firm hand, as the express rushed away 
ahead into the depths of the night, and, with a wild 
farewell shriek, plunged into the tunnel and was seen 
no more. Almost immediately afterward, the groom 
by his side turned sharply round, exclaiming, “There’s 
a runaway horse, sir, coming up behind.” And the 
words were scarcely out of his lips before a horse and 
rider tore wildly past the dog-cart. The light of the 
lamps flashed for one moment upon the maddened 
animal, upon his shining flanks lashed into foam, and 
upon the flying blackness of a woman’s skirt. 


A HARD LESSON. 


57 


“ By heavens! it’s a lady!” cried Nugent, striking 
the mare with his whip ; and the dog-cart dashed for- 
ward in pursuit. 

“There’s a nasty place ahead, sir,” suggested the 
groom. “ That there steep bank into the canal.” 

Gilbert Nugent knew every inch of the road. He 
did not need to be reminded of it. A faint cry for help 
came back to him out of the darkness. He stood up 
and shouted with all his might, “ Pull his head round 
into the hedge with a sharp jerk, if you possibly can.” 

The lady, with more presence of mind and more 
vigor of arm than ladies under such circumstances are 
wont to display, instantly obeyed his directions. He 
could see by the dark outline of horse and rider before 
him, against the lighter color of the road, that she 
gave two or three successive tugs to the horse’s head, 
and with such good results, that the animal suddenly 
swerved round. There was a soft grassy ditch and a 
very high straggling hedge, and into the ditch and the 
hedge the horse and his ride went with a crash, and 
fell together in a confused heap among the long grass. 

Nugent uttered an exclamation between his teeth, 
but, risky as it was, he remembered the steep, defence- 
less chalk bank into the canal, a hundred yards ahead, 
and felt that his advice had been good. 

In another minute he was out of the cart, assisting 
the lady to her feet. 

“ Are you hurt?” He could not see her face, but he 
could feel that she was trembling very much. 

“ No — I think not — only bruised — I — I think my arm 
is twisted — please see after my horse.” 

Sunflower had struggled to his feet, and stood quietly 
by, apparently untroubled by shame or remorse as to 
his past conduct. 


5 » 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ It’s the young lady as is staying at Old Park, sir,” 
said the groom, recognizing the chestnut even before 
his rider — 

“You had better ride the horse home, and I will 
drive the lady back,” said Nugent. 

He helped her up into the cart. Her hat was bat- 
tered, and her habit covered with mud. He could see 
that she was dreadfully shaken and upset. She looked 
faint, and he had no flask with him that he could get at. 

Even after he had got her up into the cart, a work of 
some difficulty, she lay back for a few moments, with 
closed eyes, quite incapable of speech. After they had 
driven on a little way, she roused herself to say a few 
words. 

“ I ought to thank you ; please forgive my ingratitude. ” 

“ Pray do not attempt to speak. I fear you are feel- 
ing very much upset. I wish I could have spared you 
that .tumble — but look to the right,” pointing down- 
ward with his whip. “ I was afraid your horse might 
bolt down this nasty place.” 

The road here took a sharp curve, and by the dim 
light of the lamps Helen saw beneath her the shining 
white of a steep chalk bank, with the dark sluggish 
waters of the canal winding round the base of the 
declivity. She shuddered at the suggestive sight — a 
runaway horse might, indeed, have easily gone over 
that undefended and treacherous incline. It would 
have meant a horrible, and almost a certain death ! 

“ You certainly have saved my life,” she said, after a 
moment of silence — 

“ We wont say anything about that. You are shiver- 
ing — you must let me wrap you up. ” 

He wound his own travelling rug round her shoulders, 
tucking it carefully and almost tenderly about her, and 
in this fashion they arrived in due time at Old Park. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Gilbert Nugent had not troubled himself in the 
very least as to who was the unknown young woman he 
had picked up out of the ditch and driven home by his 
side through the dark and winding lanes. It did not 
matter to him who it was. The groom had stated that 
the lady was staying at Old Park, and from the imper- 
fect evidence of his senses he had perceived that she 
was’young, with a slim and girlish figure. 

Young ladies — nieces and protigtes of Lady Camilla — 
frequently stayed at Old Park, but they had never 
interested him in any way. As Dora Torrington had 
said of him, he disliked girls. He thought them mostly 
insipid and foolish, and her ladyship had so often 
endeavored to set little traps for him with regard to 
them, in order to detach him from Dora, that he had 
come to regard all her young lady visitors with a certain 
amount of suspicion. Who this young lady might be 
he neither knew not cared. If he had known, he would 
have felt perhaps sorry that he had averted her from a 
watery grave, or that he had not left her in a fainting 
condition in the wet ditch into which she had fallen 
headlong. The name of Dacre was naturally not one 
that he was disposed to love ; although, with a certain 
philosophy that was in his character, he often told him- 
self that if the girl had defrauded him of a fortune she 
had, at any rate, done him one good turn to make up 
for it, for she had rendered it impossible for him to 
marry Mrs. Torrington. As they neared the house he 


6o 


A HARD LESSON. 


suddenly became ludicrously awake to the fact that his 
divinity would have an access of very bad temper, were 
she to witness his arrival with this young lady by his 
side. There would have to be explanations of all kinds, 
and Dora would laugh her little bitter mocking laugh, 
and look as if she did not believe a word of the story. 
He knew her of old! 

“I think,” he said to his companion, “that if you 
don’t mind I will drive straight into the stable-yard.” 

“Oh, yes, certainly; that will be much best,” an- 
swered the hitherto silent figure by his side ; “ then I 
can run into the house by the back door.” 

Helen, too, had felt the embarrassment of her return 
to the house in a muddy and battered condition, and 
under the escort — not of her friend Ted, whom she had 
lost in the darkness when her horse bolted at the train — 
but of a strange gentleman to whom she had not been 
formally introduced, although, of course, she had long 
ago concluded him to be the expected Mr. Nugent, 
about whom there appeared to hang such an atmosphere 
of mystery. 

When he helped her down out of the dog-cart, he saw 
her face plainly for the first time, and a very fine pair 
of gray eyes looked seriously and gravely up into his. 

“ I should be very much obliged to you if you would 
kindly not say anything about my little accident,” she 
said to him. “ The fact is, I want to go out hunting 
to-morrow.” 

“I quite understand,” he answered, with a smile. 
“ Lady Camilla might not allow you to go! I will be 
sure to be discreet.” 

She had unwound his rug from her shoulders, and, 
giving it him back with a little bow, she slipped quickly 
across the yard toward the back premises of the house. 


A HARD LESSON. 


6l 

“ I call that a sensible girl,” thought Nugent to him- 
self, as he strolled round to the front door. “ Doesn’t 
make a fuss about things, and she is plucky, too — wants 
to hunt to-morrow!” And then he went in and forgot 
all about her. 

It so happened that Helen’s secret was kept. She 
ran up against Ted on the back stairs — he had encoun- 
tered the groom who had ridden Sunflower home, had 
heard all that happened to her from him, and was over- 
joyed to find her unhurt and still bent upon her day’s 
hunting on the morrow. 

“ But I tell you what — we musn’t let my uncle hear 
a word about Sunflower’s having bolted, or he wont 
allow you to ride him to hounds. ” • 

“ That is exactly what I thought, Ted, and it was 
only the train frightened him, Don’t let us tell any 
one.” 

“ How about Nugent?” 

“ I’ve asked him to say nothing.” 

“ I say, ” looking at her oddly, as he leant back against 
the wall of the narrow passage, “ Did you make friends 
with him, Nell?” 

“With Mr. Nugent? Oh, I hardly said a word to 
him, and I was so frightened at first, and I felt so faint. 
I couldn’t have talked.” 

“ Did you tell him your name?” 

“ No. Why on earth should I? Let me go by, dear 
boy. I am so muddy, a,nd so tired ; I must go to my 
room and rest, or I shall not be fit to come down to 
dinner.” 

“Well, you are a jolly good sort to be still keen on 
hunting to-morrow,” said Ted approvingly, as he 
allowed her to pass him. “ I must say that, for a girl , 
you aren’t half a bad chap.” 


62 


A HARD LESSON. 


Mrs. Torrington looked very charming that evening, 
as she stood ready dressed for dinner before the fire- 
place in the old oak-panelled hall. She had arrayed 
herself in a particularly becoming and somewhat 
juvenile costume of soft white cr£pe de chine , and so 
admirably did the delicate fabric harmonize with the 
clear tints of her still wonderful complexion, with the 
childlike blue eyes, and the fair aureole of softly coiled 
hair about her small head, that nobody seeing her thus 
for the first time would have guessed her to be within 
ten years of her real age. There are some women who 
at thirty are already faded and old, who have sunk back 
into the pale ranks of those whose power is over — whose 
charm forever is buried in the past. There are others 
who seem to possess the wonderful gift of keeping the 
hand of Time at bay for an indefinite term of years — 
whose voices still preserve the ring of youth, and whose 
faces retain the faculty of attraction and of conquest 
long after the reality of their first beauty has passed 
away. Such women have always maintained their 
ascendency over men’s lives. 

Dora Torrington had thus learnt how to defy the 
passing years. She had suffered a good deal from 
them, but she had not allowed them to rob her of her 
perennial youthfulness. “ When I grow old and wrink- 
led I hope I shall die,” she often said of herself; and 
to keep off those terrible and inevitable wrinkles was 
the chief study of her existence. 

To-night she had striven — heaven knows with what 
elaborate care — to make herself supremely fair, and 
certainly her efforts had been successful. 

Even Gilbert Nugent, when he joined her in the 
hall, was conscious of the loveliness which, had he 
known it, was put forth all for himself. 


A HARD LESSON. 


63 


“ How remarkably well you are looking, Dora!’* he 
said to her, as he came and stood beside her in the 
fire glow. “ Old Park suits you. ” 

“ Do you think so?” she replied, smiling sweetly at 
him. “ Are you glad to see me, Gilbert?” 

“ Of course ! We have not met for some time. What 
have you been doing with yourself this winter? Coun- 
try house visits, I suppose? Any new flirtations?” 

“ How unkind you are ! Do I ever forget you, Gilbert?” 

He made no response — only looked down, and the 
ghost of a sigh escaped his lips. How he wished, 
indeed, that she would forget him. His silence and 
his coldness exasperated her. She knew that he was 
tired of her — dead sick of her! — and that if she would 
but give him his liberty, he would be thankful to her ; 
and yet she was aware that his honor, and a certain 
steadfastness of affection, prevented him from transfer- 
ring his allegiance elsewhere ; and she would not loosen 
the chain, or set free the wearied captive. 

“What can he want better?” she said to herself. 
“ It’s not as if I were old or ugly. I am still as attrac- 
tive as ever to other men, and in all these years I have 
not aged a bit. He has no excuse. If he were half a 
man he would marry me — poor as we both are. But 
he is too selfish to marry into poverty ; he is incapable 
of such generosity. Very well! and so am I! I will 
not set him free till the ten years of our bargain are 
over!” 

Then, because she was as clever as she was pretty, 
she played her trump card. 

Nestling up close to him, and twisting her soft, bare 
arm through his, she whispered, with laughing eyes — 

“ Camilla has got another wife in readiness for you. 
She has laid a delightful little trap for you this time.” 


6 4 


A HARD LESSON. 


Nothing irritated Nugent more than this match- 
making propensity of his hostess. Old friends as the 
Greysons were, he often told himself that he would 
come to their house no more if this system of persecu- 
tion was to continue. He laughed a little angrily. , “ I 
should have thought she was tired of that game!” 

“ Not a bit. She has invited you on purpose. She 
is quite sure you will succumb this time. ” 

“ She asked me to come because you were here — in 
order to meet you. Naturally I accepted the invitation 
with alacrity and promptitude!” There was a little 
mocking sarcasm in his reply which Dora did not forget 
to make a note of. 

“ Oh, that was a blind ! The girl she destines you 
for is already in the house. No doubt she is well 
primed. Why, she even confided the scheme to me! 
She thinks I ought to persuade you, for your own good, 
to marry her. ” 

“ For my own good! Why should marriage be for 
any one’s advantage? Every marriage I ever heard of 
is more or less unhappy! Why can’t you women let a 
man alone, instead of always shoving matrimony down 
his throat, as if it were a panacea for all human ills? 
I am not going to marry any one to order — not any 
one!” He said it with a sort of fierce anger. He 
might — or he might not — have meant to imply more 
than he said. Mrs. Torrington laughed a little mirth- 
less laugh he had often heard before. 

“Of course not; why should you? Besides, for three 
years longer you are bound to remain a bachelor; so 
isn’t it a good thing that you never do feel inclined to 
rush into the bonds of matrimony?” 

He looked savage, but made no answer. She had a 
way of turning the tables upon him which irritated him. 


A HARD LESSON. 


65 


“ This girl — ” began Dora again, after a short pause. 

“ Oh, you needn’t tell me about her!” he said, turning 
away impatiently. Of course it was the girl on the 
runaway horse whom he had driven home in the dog- 
cart. Seen in the light of his own prejudices, the 
whole of this episode now appeared to him to be a pre- 
concerted plan: it had all probably been got up on 
purpose — a sensational introduction to arouse his inter- 
est or his compassion. The flagrant injustice of this 
improbable hypothesis did not even strike him. “ I 
take no interest whatever in these girls and their plots!” 
he said angrily. 

“ Camilla thinks you will in this one.” 

“ Why this particular one?” 

“ Because she has money.” 

“Money! What a nice opinion Lady Camilla must 
have of me! I’m a vulgar fortune-hunter now, I 
suppose?” 

“ This girl’s fortune has something peculiar about it.” 

“ How do you mean?” 

“Only that it ought to be yours,” she said lightly, 
turning away. 

“Mine! Good heavens — who on earth — ? Ah! I 
begin to see ! Come here, Dora — come back — tell me 
at once — is it that wretched girl?” 

He followed her half across the hall ; under the light 
of a tall standard lamp he caught her by the hand and 
drew her close to him. He looked flushed, eager, 
excited. Dora’s face * turned up toward him was 
beaming with a smile — the smile of triumph and of 
victory. The lamp-light fell upon them both. 

Some one in the shadow of the landing above stood 
still for one moment at the top of the stairs to look at 
them. In her black evening dress no ray of light 
5 


66 


A HARD LESSON. 


illumined her motionless figure. She could not hear 
their voices, but their faces were clear to her — the 
hands that were clasped together, the eyes that were 
occupied with each other — the handsome man bending 
over a delicately pretty woman. It all came back to 
her at once with a flash of recollection. 

“I know now where I have seen her and him,” said 
Helen to herself, “ They are the same two who were on 
the coach that came across the common. I envied them 
then — they looked so happy, so oblivious of everything 
but each other. I envy them now — they look at one 
another now — they are happy, no doubt, to be together ; 
they are lovers!” 

It seemed to come home to her like a revelation, 
and she stole softly downward, with noiseless footfalls 
upon the velvet pile carpet. 

What a handsome couple they made ; how happy they 
must be! Oh! how good it must be to love and be 
loved by such a man as that ! 

Then suddenly she heard his voice — a voice that 
trembled with emotion, and yet the emotion was 
scarcely that of love. 

“ Do you mean to tell me that wretched girl has been 
brought here to mock me — to triumph over me?” 

“Not at all. To marry you,” was the laughing 
answer. “ That is the plan. To marry you to her, so 
that you may get your uncle’s money back through her. ” 

“ My God ! it is an insult ! Why, if there were not 
another woman in the whole world I would not marry 
Helen Dacre.” 

A swift upward rush, the retreating rustle of a silken 
skirt, and the staircase was empty once more. The 
listener was gone. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The hounds met the next morning at Welton Gorse — 
a small common, with a public-house at one corner of 
it, situated about three miles from Old Park. 

By eleven o’clock a good muster of horsemen had 
assembled at the appointed place, in the open space in 
front of the Green Man, while from the stable-yard 
behind it glimpses could be obtained of the pack of 
hounds, carefully suppressed into silence and expecta- 
tion by the two whips. 

Not many ladies were present, for the day was damp 
and misty ; and, with a falling glass, only the very few 
who regarded hunting as a business, and not as a trifling 
pastime, had ventured to put in an appearance. It was, 
therefore, not very difficult for Gilbert Nugent to 
recognize the heroine of his last night’s adventure, 
even if her proximity to Ted had not revealed her 
identity to him. 

He had not seen Miss Dacre at dinner last night. 
For some reason or other, which was not communicated 
to him, she remained in her own room. He was left 
to imagine that her tumble had tried her more than he 
had at first supposed, and his angry attitude toward 
her had undergone a certain amount of modification in 
consequence. 

“Poor girl!” he thought, with an almost involuntary 
spasm of compassion, as he saw the butler push away 
her vacant chair from the dinner table ; “ perhaps after 
all she was hurt. ” 


67 


68 


A HARD LESSON. 


Her absence served also to arouse a little curiosity in 
his mind about her. He gathered from a word or two 
he overheard between Lady 'Camilla and her brother, 
that she had excused herself from appearing on the 
grounds of a headache, caused by over-fatigue from 
her ride. 

“ I don’t think her very strong,” he heard Lord Bain- 
ton say. “ I believe I ought not to allow her to hunt 
to-morrow. ” 

“Oh, let her go to the meet anyhow, uncle,” put in 
Teddie eagerly. “ Besides, she’ll be all right to-mor- 
row. ” 

“ Nothing unusual happened, I suppose, this after- 
noon?” inquired Lord Bainton of his young nephew. 
“ The horse went all right?” 

“Oh, yes, all right, ” replied Ted, with unblushing 
mendacity. And Mr. Nugent, who might have sup- 
plied the required information, discreetly held his 
tongue. 

The next morning — dressing on a hunting day being 
a lengthy and arduous undertaking, not to be lightly 
hurried over — Nugent came down, unfortunately late 
for breakfast, to find that Ted and his pupil had already 
started. Dora, too, had finished her breakfast, and was 
impatient to be off; and Mr. Greyson, who mounted 
her occasionally on one of his worst horses, was already 
in the saddle and offering her his escort. 

“I’ll wait for Gilbert, thanks,” she answered; “he 
has just finished his breakfast.” Upon which her 
cousin and Lord Bainton rode off together. 

“What is the meaning of that business, Tom?” 
inquired Bainton of his brother-in-law; “is the pretty 
widow engaged to Nugent?” 

“ I suppose so, though they declare there’s nothing 


A HARD LESSON. 69 

in it; but Pm not np to the ways of young men and 
young women of the present day. ” 

“I don’t see how they are to marry if they .have no 
money. ” 

“ Neither do I. That is why Camilla hoped he might 
take a fancy to your ward, Bainton.” 

“Oh, as to that,” replied the other, with some 
offence, “ I do not consider that he would be by a long 
way a good enough match for her, and my consent 
until she is twenty-one is necessary.” 

“And you would not give it in this case?” inquired 
Mr. Greyson, with a little anxiety; for he, too, had 
been infected with his wife’s fears lest Bainton should 
spoil Ted’s chances by marrying his ward. 

“ I should be guided by circumstances,” replied Lord 
Bainton, a little stiffly, after a moment’s pause. 
“ Helen’s own wishes and her happiness will be natur- 
ally my first consideration.” 

“Well,” remarked Mr. Greyson meditatively, “a 
woman might do worse than trust her happiness to 
Gilbert Nugent — he is a good fellow.” 

“ If by a ‘good fellow’ you mean a good sportsman, 
an undeniable shot, a first-rate billiard-player, and a 
pleasant companion, I quite agree with you ; but 
regarded as a suitor for my ward, there are two very 
serious objections to him. His not unnatural desire 
to regain Ashworth’s money, which would probably 
influence his motives to a considerable extent ; and his 
undesirable and, to my old-fashioned ideas, incompre- 
hensible friendship with your cousin, Mrs. Torrington.” 

“There is no harm in Dora Torrington,” said his 
brother-in-law, with a quick flush. “ The whole thing 
is silly, I grant you — but it means nothing.” 

“ Possibly not, but the world has said — and who is to 


7 ° 


A HARD LESSON. 


say that the world is not right? — that, considering 
the publicity which has been given to the friendship, 
if Nugent marries it is your cousin who ought to be 
his wife.” 

Mr. Greyson rode on in silence by his side. “ So 
much for Camilla’s match-makings!” he thought rue- 
fully. “ It is clear that, unless the girl herself falls in 
love with him, nothing can be done.” 

Helen, sitting very straight upon her handsome 
chestnut horse, opposite the “ Green Man,” was very far 
from falling in love with anybody. It was Lord Bain- 
ton himself who formally performed the introduction. 

“ I want to introduce you to Miss Dacre,” he said to 
Nugent when the latter at length rode up to the scene 
of action. 

“ Delighted, I’m sure,” replied the young man, with, 
however, very little delight in his voice and face. 
Helen was on the further side of the little cluster of 
horsemen. As Nugent approached her in the wake of 
her guardian, he had the opportunity of observing her 
carefully before she was aware of his presence. In- 
stantly a picture rushed back to his memory — a pic- 
ture of a wide common, brilliant with yellow gorse and 
gold-brown bracken, and flooded with the rays of the 
dying sun; and in the foreground, the tall, solitary 
figure of a woman standing alone by the roadside. 
Seen again, with another common — a flat, gray, dismal- 
hued plain, this one — behind her, he knew her again at 
once. That picture, transient and insignificant as it 
had seemed, had left a curiously vivid impression upon 
his mind. There had been a sort of premonition within 
him ever since that day that he was destined to see that 
woman again — that she was to bear some part, either 
for good or evil, in his future life ; and now he found 


A HARD LESSON. 


71 


himself once more face to face with that fleeting vision 
of the past. And, oh, marvel of marvels ! the woman 
was Helen Dacre! 

A warm flush swept over her pale oval face as she 
returned his bow. 

“This is your first day’s hunting, I believe?” he 
inquired politely. 

She assented almost mutely, without meeting his 
eyes. A wild rage was in her heart toward this man, 
whose terrible words about herself she had overheard 
last night; and a desperate resolve had arisen in her 
mind. 

Lord Bamton had riden farther away. Nugent seized 
the opportunity to say to her in a low voice — 

“ I trust you are none the worse for your fright and 
your tumble yesterday? I felt quite anxious about 
you when you did not come down last night. Are you 
better?” 

She turned her eyes fully upon him. What fine eyes 
they were — large and deep and gray. He was sure 
they could be very tender eyes. But there was no ten- 
derness in them now. On the contrary, they were filled 
with such a hard and angry resentment as they met 
his, as to cause him a most curiously unpleasant sur- 
prise. 

“ Mr. Nugent,” she said to him in a low, steady voice, 
making no pretence at an answer to his polite questions 
concerning her health, “ I think we had better under- 
stand one another at once.” 

“Miss Dacre!” he stammered. 

“ Yes. Dacre is my name. I am without doubt that 
‘wretched girl’ who has robbed you of your uncle’s 
money. This being the case, it will be better that we 
should remain total strangers to each other — as far, 


72 


A HARD LESSON. 


that is, as the exigencies of our position will permit 
of it.” 

“ Upon my soul, Miss Dacre, you are horribly unjust 
to me!” cried Nugent, in uncontrollable agitation. 
For it is one thing to denounce an unknown young 
lady behind her back, and quite another to proclaim 
oneself the enemy of a lady whose flashing and beauti- 
ful eyes are looking into one’s own. 

“ You are most unjust!” he repeated hotly. “And I 
do not understand you in the least. ” 

“ On the contrary, it is justice alone that is my aim 
and object,” she replied calmly, “and I will proceed 
to make my meaning perfectly clear to you. It is 
within your power to leave Old Park, but as it is not 
within mine, it will be necessary that we shall exchange 
the ordinary civilities of daily life as long as we are 
both the inmates of Mr. Greyson’s house. More than 
this I forbid.” 

“ You forbid?” 

“ I forbid you to speak to me one single word more 
than is required of necessity by the presence of other 
people.” 

“ But why? — why?” he repeated blankly. 

“ Because I overheard what you said about me last 
night to Mrs. Torrington. ” 

“ Oh!” 

He could not utter another sound. He fell back 
from her side speechless. There was no apology on 
the face of the earth that could make his peace with 
her. No single word in all the length and breadth of 
the English language that could avail him anything. 
The absolute hopelessness of any such attempt para- 
lyzed him. 

His face as he drew away his horse from her side 


A HARD LESSON. 


73 


was ashen gray. Nothing in the whole course of his 
life had ever struck him such a blow. The utter 
debasement he experienced — the agony of intolerable 
shame which turned his whole being sick and cold — 
was an utterly new thing to him. Was it possible that 
it was to him — to the handsome and popular Gilbert 
Nugent, who ever had but to smile, in order to succeed — 
whose only complaint had been that women, from 
Dora downward, pursued him too persistently and too 
flatteringly — that it was to him that those cruel and 
scathing words had been spoken? In a few moments 
he felt as though he lay under some horrible enchant- 
ment. The gay scene about him became vague and 
indistinct before his eyes ; and when some acquaintance 
spoke to him, he stared blankly in his face and gave 
back no answer. 

The business of the day aroused him at this moment 
from his stupefaction. The master gave the signal, 
the mottled pack of hounds came out of the stable-yard 
of the inn and trotted up the muddy road, escorted by 
the whips, and the whole field proceeded to file along 
after them in the direction of the gorse covert which 
was to be drawn. Nugent followed with the rest. On 
ahead, between her guardian and Ted Greyson, he 
could see Helen Dacre’s slim back and the smooth 
brown hair coiled round her little upright' head ; could 
watch the easy movements of her graceful figure, and 
the smooth outline of the oval cheek, as she turned to 
speak first to one and then to the other of her compan- 
ions. Somehow he could not help looking at her ; the 
sight of her filled him with a blind exasperation, with 
a maddening anger ; and yet it was impossible to him 
to turn either his eyes or his thoughts away from her. 

All the time the hounds were drawing the covert, 


74 


A HARD LESSON. 


although he had moved as far away from her as possible, 
and although his own devoted Dora was once more at 
his side, he was still painfully and acutely conscious of 
the presence of the girl who had forbidden him to 
speak to her. 

How handsome she had looked ; how fine was the fire 
in her angry eyes and the curl of her scornful lip! 
How sweet those eyes and lips would look under other 
circumstances — to a man, for instance, whom she loved ! 

And then his eyes, glancing aside, fell upon Dora’s 
upturned little face in close proximity to his own. 
Somehow a process of unwilling comparison went on 
swiftly and almost involuntarily in his mind. Now, 
Mrs. Torrington did not look her best upon a horse. 
The stiff lines of a habit did not suit her babyish style 
of beauty. Her hair fluttered incongruously beyond 
her tall black hat, and her tie and collar were not quite 
everything that the taste of a fastidious sportsman 
demands. Moreover, the chill damp wind had taken 
the crispness out of the tiny curled rolls at the nape of 
the neck, so that they fell limply and untidily over her 
collar, while that same ungenial breeze had imparted 
a tinge of redness, to the tip of her flower-tilted nose. 
Dora looked ever so much nearer her real age this 
morning than she had done last night in all the panoply 
of her evening- dress glory. 

“What are you looking so solemn about, Gilbert?” 
she asked him, tapping his arm playfully with her 
hunting-crop. “You haven’t spoken a single word to 
me since we got here. What is the matter?” 

“It’s beastly cold,” he answered crossly, not answer- 
ing her look and smile. “ How many minutes more 
have we got to stand shivering here ! There never are 
any foxes in this vile country.” 


A HARD LESSON. 


75 


“ Listen !” she answered, as a faint whimper arose 
from the covert before them : “ they have found already. 
We shall be off in a moment. Mind you keep near 
me, Gilbert, and pilot me across my fences.” 

“My dear girl,” he answered roughly, “if ladies 
choose to come out hunting they must just take their 
chances like other people. I really cannot promise to 
give up my day’s sport to look after you. You’d far 
better go back if you are nervous.” 

Before she could make any reply to this ungracious 
speech a shout arose. 

“ Gone away — gone away!” came wildly from a dozen 
throats from the further side of the covert. Everybody 
proceeded to rush headlong down the green slope, be- 
yond where a small reddish object was to be seen flying 
madly away across the open, with the whole pack in 
full cry after it. 

Helen, by a piece of good luck, found herself well to 
the front of the field. 

“Sit tight, and keep his head straight,” had been 
Ted’s parting instructions as he shot on ahead of her, 
while Lord Bainton adjured her to be careful, and to 
follow him through the gates and gaps, which, at his 
advanced age, he now most frequently affected. But 
small heed has twenty for the prudent counsel of sixty ; 
and Helen, with a good horse beneath her, and with all 
the ardor and keenness of her youth and courage dan- 
cing in her veins, was not to be held back from tasting to 
the uttermost the delight of her first day after the 
hounds. She shook her head gayly at her guardian 
and followed Ted boldly and fearlessly. 

On swept the rush of horses across the broad, green 
meadows. Helen, who was well to the front, would 
certainly have seen all the fun and been in at the death 


7 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


at the end of this short and sharp twenty minutes’ run 
but for an incident which altered the whole complexion 
of the day for her. 

Two men — strangers to her — were riding alongside, 
and one called out to the other— 

“A man down at the last fence, isn’t there?” 

“Yes; his horse staked himself, I think,” was the 
reply. 

“ Is the man hurt?” 

“ I haven’t a notion — he didn’t get up.” 

“ Is anybody looking after him?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know. I wasn’t going to lose a 
good thing for a chap I don’t know,” and the two riders 
shot on in front of her. 

There was something to Helen’s mind that was very 
brutal in the utter selfishness of this short conversation. 
She looked round. Half-a-dozen scattered riders were 
galloping across the field behind her, and she could just 
see the head and forequarters of a horse struggling half 
out of the ditch she had just crossed; but no rider was 
to be seen. 

The hunt and all its untasted joys went straight out 
of Helen Dacre’s head. With a great gush of pity for 
the unfortunate man whom everybody had forgotten 
and left behind, she pulled in her excited animal and 
cantered back to the fence behind. 

The horse — badly hurt apparently — lay half sub- 
merged in the wet ditch, and on the bank above a man, 
white and motionless as death itself, lay flat upon his 
back ; his eyes were closed, and a thin stream of blood 
trickled ominously across his forehead. 

She cast one wild look around her — there was not a 
living being in sight. 

That man was Gilbert Nugent. 


CHAPTER IX. 


To find oneself alone in a sylvan landscape with a 
. man who is to all appearances perfectly dead, and yet 
whom common humanity compels one to succor, is not 
an enviable position for the most stout-hearted; but 
when this unfortunate predicament occurs to a young 
and inexperienced girl, and the man stretched out help- 
lessly before her happens to be the one person on earth 
to whom she has sworn an eternal enmity, there is an 
aggravation of the circumstances of the case which may 
be said to be absolutely appalling. 

Helen Dacre, left alone with the seemingly lifeless 
corpse of Gilbert Nugent, was, for the first few mo- 
ments, completely at her wits’ end. She had sprung 
hastily from her horse, and, tying him up to a neigh- 
boring tree, did her utmost for some minutes to restore 
animation to the injured man. Kneeling down by his 
side in the wet and muddy banks, she lifted his head 
upon her arm, and having discovered his flask in the 
side-pocket of his coat, she tried to force the neck of it 
between his lips. This, however, was a hopeless en- 
deavor, for his teeth were firmly clenched together. 
Then she bethought her of the muddy ditch below; 
and, taking off her hat, she filled it with the water, and 
proceeded to bathe his forehead with her handkerchief. 
By this she only revealed the ugly cut across his tem- 
ples, from which the blood continued to flow slowly 
forth ; but she did not succeed in restoring the faintest 
sign of life. 


77 


78 


A HARD LESSON. 


By this time she had become thoroughly and dread- 
fully frightened. Standing up, she looked about her in 
every direction for any indication of human habitation, 
but neither north, south, east, nor west was there the 
vestige of a living being, or the humblest of cottages to 
be descried. Only far away, at the top of a wooded 
hill, she thought she could discern a thin blue line of 
smoke stealing sluggishly upward to the gray and low- 
ering sky. Then she shouted at the top of her voice for 
help, but no sound came back to her out of the silence 
save the faint, mocking echo of her own cries. At this 
moment, to make matters still worse, it began to rain. 

“ Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” cried the 
bewildered girl aloud, in her despair. 

She looked down upon the poor white face that lay 
upon the trampled and muddy grass at her feet, and 
saw how the pitiless rain was falling straightly and 
mercilessly upon it, and all her heart went out in com- 
passion and pity toward him who lay there so still and 
so helpless. Once more she fell on her knees beside 
him, and a divine, womanly sorrow arose within her, 
overcoming all her hatred and anger to him, so that the 
tears streamed freely over her downcast face. 

“ Oh, poor fellow — poor fellow!” she murmured aloud 
in broken accents, “is it possible that he can be dead ? 
and only an hour ago he looked so handsome, and 
brave, and bright, as he sat on his horse among the 
rest! Oh, what am I to do to help him?” But the 
drenching raindrops only fell down faster and faster 
upon the white and inanimate face — and nobody an- 
swered her cries. Then she realized that she must go 
for help. She must leave him — and yet how leave him 
like this? 

Out of his pocket, when she had found the flask, there 


A HARD LESSON. 


79 


had fallen a small penknife. Without a moment’s hes- 
itation she picked it up and cut a large square of cloth 
out of the skirt of her habit. It did not even cross her 
mind that it was a new one worn to-day for the very 
first time. Then, cutting a couple of stakes from the 
hedge behind her, she so arranged the piece of cloth 
over the head of the insensible man that it formed a 
complete shelter to his face. This done, she started off 
at a rapid pace across the fields toward the distant line 
of smoke, which seemed to denote the nearest house to 
which she could go for help. 

Helen Dacre never forgot that walk. It was in real- 
ity little more than a mile before she reached the sub- 
stantial farm-house that was her goal; but if it had 
been five it could not have been a more painful or ter- 
rible experience to her. It was raining hard, the 
ground was heavy, and the thick clay soil stuck to her 
boots and delayed her steps. There was no path ; she 
had to make her way over the hedges and ditches, 
creeping through gaps and scrambling over railings as 
best she could. Very soon the ground rose steeply from 
the flat fields below, and the ascent of the hillside added 
to her labor and her fatigue ; and as she struggled pain- 
fully onward — breathless and trembling — great sobs of 
compassion and of terror for him she had left behind 
rent her bosom now and again with despair and woe. 
When at length she reached the red-brick farm that 
crowned the hilltop she stumbled and fell, half fainting 
across the open threshold, at the feet of the astonished 
farmer, who, by good luck, happened to be coming out 
of his house. 

Perhaps, but for Helen Dacre and for the timely suc- 
cor which through her efforts was speedily brought to 
him, Gilbert Nugent — left in his dangerous condition, 


8o 


A HARD LESSON. 


exposed to the rain and the wind — might indeed have 
died that day. Afterward, when he was getting bet- 
ter, and the story of her courage and fortitude was told 
to him as he lay upon his bed, it seemed to him that in 
very truth he owed to her his life, and that but for her 
he must have perished. But a great many long days 
and nights had passed away before the knowledge of 
what she had done for him came home to his clouded 
intelligence. 

For he was very ill. A severe concussion of the 
brain bereft him for days of all knowledge and all 
thought, and he lay for some time hovering between life 
and death, with the odds very much in favor of the lat- 
ter contingency. 

During that time Old Park assumed the similitude of 
a hospital. Voices were hushed and footsteps trod 
softly about the house. Sick nurses, one for day and 
one for night, were installed upstairs, and doctors came 
and went, and consulted, and shook their heads and 
looked grave, for many days. Then with the return of 
consciousness came high fever, and a new danger to the 
patient. The height of his temperature, the condition 
of his strength, were the chief topics of conversation and 
of interest, and there was not a thought or a feeling 
from morning till night among them all that did not 
centre in that darkened sick room upstairs. 

During these weeks — three of them — that dragged 
their weary length away one after the other, - sundry 
minor changes took place among the inmates of Mr. 
Greyson’s old house. 

Lord Bainton, sick to death of the gloom, and se- 
cretly bored at having to talk below his breath and 
creep along the passages on tiptoe, made a few polite 
excuses to his sister and her husband and took himself 


A HARD LESSON. 


8l 


off to a cheerful country house in the adjoining county, 
to which he had received a tempting invitation. He 
left his ward behind, promising to return to see her 
“ by-and-by, ” a term of beautiful and convenient vague- 
ness which he did not attempt to particularize. Three 
days after, Teddie, in a most crestfallen state of mind, 
returned to Eton, and Helen cried her eyes out over his 
departure, giving him a handsome horseshoe pin set 
with pearls as a parting present. 

There were now only Mrs. Torrington and Helen left 
in the -house with their hosts, and with all the doctors 
and nurses to talk and to think about. 

The behavior of the two women presented a curious 
contrast. Dora, who was genuinely unhappy, and not 
at all ashamed of being so, wept a great deal and be- 
moaned her poor dear Gilbert’s condition all day long 
in unmeasured terms. 

Helen Dacre would sit silently by her, listening to 
her plaints with a little cold and silent scorn in her 
still and passionless face. Dora no doubt loved him, 
and had a right to weep for him. Yet Helen thought 
that in her place she would not have made quite so 
public a profession of her grief and her affection. 
Sometimes, too, her wails and lamentations took a curi- 
ous and almost ludicrous turn. 

One evening, after the doctor had left the house with 
no improvement to speak of in his report, Dora flung 
herself, face downward, upon the sofa in a perfect 
paroxysm of grief, and Helen attempted in com- 
mon humanity to give her what consolation she could 
think of. 

“ You know,” she said, “ that we must not expect any 
improvement till the fourteenth day, and that will not 
be till the day after to-morrow.” 

6 


82 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ And how do you suppose I am to go on enduring 
this suspense till the day after to-morrow? It is all 
very well for you. Of course you don’t care; he is a 
stranger to you ; but he is the best friend I have in the 
world, and of course I should go into mourning for him 
— it would be expected of me by everybody — and there 
are three new dresses I had ordered, waiting half fin- 
ished at Madame Dentelle’s, and I can’t have them 
touched till I know the worst!” 

“Oh!” cried Helen, with a touch of indignation. “ I 
can’t ina^gine how you can think about your clothes at 
such a time.” 

“And what else is there to think about, I should 
like to know? It isn’t as if I was allowed to nurse the 
poor dear and be with him. Camilla is so horribly 
proper — she wont let me put my nose inside the door ; 
though he wouldn’t know me, and he is probably dy- 
ing. One can’t do anything. People would be shocked 
if I drove to the meet, only because one is a woman. 
Men have far slacker codes for themselves. There is 
Tom hunting regularly, as if nothing was wrong ; but 
if I were to be seen on a horse everybody would be 
scandalized and call me unfeeling. ” 

“ I can’t think how you can wish to go. I couldn’t 
bear to go out and amuse myself, although, as you say, 
Mr. Nugent is absolutely nothing to me.” 

Dora had risen from the sofa, and was drying her 
eyes before the glass. 

“ Well, nobody can accuse me of want of feeling, I 
am sure, considering the oceans of tears I've cried. I 
declare my eyes are swollen half out of my head. I am 
hideous! I look a perfect fright, don’t I?” — turning 
round to Helen with an eager hope that she might deny 


A HARD LESSON. 83 

the question. But Helen only looked at her critically, 
and replied, cruelly, after a moment’s reflection — 

“I cannot say that you look your best,” an answer 
which naturally did not cause Mrs. Torrington to love 
her any better. 

What Helen herself felt about the sick man it would 
be difficult to say. No doubt she shared the general 
anxiety on his account, and longed and hoped with the 
rest that he might recover. Often she was conscious 
of a curiously persistent heartache which almost over- 
stepped the limits of ordinary Christian sympathy, but 
she repeatedly assured herself that this was fully ac- 
counted for by the part she had been obliged to play in 
the story of his accident. 

“ If he had been a common laborer whom I had never 
seen before,” she said to herself, “I should have done 
as much for him, and I would feel exactly the same as 
I do now. ” 

On the day, however, when at length Gilbert Nugent 
was definitely pronounced to be out of danger, Helen 
experienced not only a sense of natural relief, but also 
an entire revulsion of feeling about him. All her 
anger and animosity to him seemed to return to her, and 
the more tender feelings which his dangerous condition 
had awakened in her died away again entirely. 

“ I wish I could go away before he is well enough to 
come out of his bedroom,” she thought. “ I never want 
to see him again ” 

But Lord Bainton had left her at Old Park under 
Lady Camilla’s charge, and there seemed no chance at 
present of his returning to take her away. 

Meanwhile Dora was writing out telegrams to her 
dressmaker and milliner to finish off her colored 


8 4 


A HARD LESSON. 


dresses, and to send her down some red felt hats to 
choose from. 

“ So lucky, isn’t it?” she cried delightedly. “ Now I 
can look forward to my lovely pink and gold evening 
dress again. I really haven’t dared to let my thoughts 
dwell upon it lately. I must positively get it in time 
for the hunt ball ; for of course I can go to that now. 
Dear me! I thought last week I shouldn’t be able to 
go to another ball for a year.” 

Helen could not find it in her heart to express any 
sympathy with these rejoicings. 

u How selfish she is,” she thought “Is it possible 
that she can really love him? I have never loved any- 
body. At least, I am sure that what I feel for poor 
Frederick is not love at all ; so I dare say I shall never 
know what it is like. But if I were Mrs. Torrington, 

and Gilbert Nugent loved me, I fancy — I fancy ” 

But what Helen fancied about it was never put into 
words at all, not even in her innermost thoughts. 


CHAPTER X. 


“ Miss Dacre, will you not wait one moment?” 

Helen was making for the door. Gilbert Nugent had 
half risen from his chair by the library fire. It was 
only the second day he had come downstairs. He was 
very weak and pale, and his thin hands and the great 
hollows round his eyes told of the fever- wasted days 
that he had so lately gone through. The butler and 
the sick nurse, supporting him one on either side, had 
led him downstairs, and had deposited him in his chair ; 
and then Helen, who had been sitting on the floor in 
the window, with a volume of fine old prints in her lap, 
rose hastily, in order to make her escape. 

“ Do, please, stay one minute ; I want to speak to 
you.” 

She paused irresolutely, with her hand upon the door. 
Her eyes fell, and a little nervous flush mounted to her 
face. 

“Pray don’t attempt to stand,” she said, with cold 
politeness; “you are not strong enough.” 

He sank back in his chair. “ You will not go?” 

“ I will stay for a minute.” 

“ I want to thank you ” he began. 

“ Pray do nothing of the kind. You have nothing to 
thank me for,” she said, hastily. 

“ I have been told all that you did for me. But for 
you I might easily have died.” 

“ I should have done as much for anybody — for a 
tramp or a beggar,” she said coldly. 

85 


86 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ That may be ; but I must thank you, all the 
same. In all human probability I owe it to you that I 
am alive at this present moment, Miss Dacre. How am 
I to thank you? How am I to convince you of my 
gratitude?” 

She lifted her eyes suddenly and met his. Who 
would have believed that those same eyes had not long 
since gazed with such tender anxiety into his lifeless 
face — that they had shed rivers of tears in divinest pity 
for his fate? There was neither pity nor tenderness in 
them now— only that same hard, angry glitter which he 
had seen in them once before, and remembered all too 
well. 

“ Spare me both your thanks and your gratitude,” she 
said remorselessly. “ I do not want either. ” 

4< Do you mean to say,” he stammered, flushing pain- 
fully, “ that you are still as determined — after all I 
have gone through, all you have done for me — that you 
cannot yet forgive me? Surely, things now are 
changed ” 

“Nothing is changed,” she interrupted, with a little 
gesture of anger. 

“ Then you mean — you mean — that you will not be 
friends with me?” 

“ I will never be friends with you!” she replied, in a 
hard voice. His head fell back upon the cushions of 
his chair. There was a moment of silence, then the 
soft opening and shutting of the door, and he was 
alone. 

He sat quite still for some minutes, his eyes, with 
their dark, hollow circles, staring vacantly in front of 
him, and his pale face a little paler than usual, and his 
hands nervously clutching the arms of his chair. At 
length a long sigh broke from his lips 


A HARD LESSON. 87 

“ My God!” he said aloud; “if I could only make 
that woman love me!” 

As to Helen, she went away with her head erect and 
her whole figure drawn up with a sense of triumphant 
victory. 

“He shall not think that it was from any weakness 
toward him — any softening of my heart — that I did 
what I could for him,” she said to herself proudly. 

Mrs. Torrington ran up against her in the corridor. 
“ Gilbert is down, I hear? Do you know which room 
he is in?” 

“ He is in the library. I have just come from there.” 

“You! You have seen him, then?” 

“ Certainly I have seen him, since I was in the room 
when he was brought in,” replied Helen carelessly, as 
she passed her by. 

Dora stood for a moment looking after her a little 
suspiciously. Her pretty face was vaguely troubled 
with the keenness of a jealous nature. She began to 
scent the danger she had been so anxious to ward off. 

“ I wonder how long they have been alone together,” 
she thought, as she proceeded somewhat thoughtfully 
toward the library door. 

She found Gilbert Nugent abstracted and gloomy. 
He scarcely responded to her smile, and the fingers 
which she took warmly into both her hands lay coldly 
and unresponsively in her grasp. 

“ Are you tired, Gilbert?” 

“No, thank you, Dora.” 

“ Are you feeling better?” 

“ Yes, thank you.” 

She sat down beside him. She had brought the 
Times with her to read aloud to him. He assented 
quietly when she asked him if she should do so, and she 


88 


A HARD LESSON. 


began to read to him ; first the items of latest news, 
and then the leading articles. 

The room was very still and quiet. The weather 
during the last few days had become thoroughly win- 
try, and through the windows a soft cloud of snow 
could be seen falling thickly and noiselessly over the 
world without. The wood fire burned redly in the 
wide grate ; the clock ticked on the mantelpiece ; and 
as she read the sheets of the newspaper crackled and 
fluttered in Dora’s hand. 

There was no chance of any disturbance. Mr. Grey- 
son, taking advantage of the inclemency of the weather, 
which had put hunting out of the question, had gone up 
to London for the day, and Lady Camilla at this early 
hour was wont to be engaged in long conferences with 
that important personage, her cook-housekeeper. 

Dora had reckoned upon a long morning with her 
slave. After she had been reading for about a quarter 
of an hour she suddenly became aware, with an intui- 
tive and unaccountable instinct, that her companion 
was not listening to her. She looked up sharply at 
him. His eyes were fixed on vacancy — on the falling 
snow out of doors. He was evidently unaware of the 
cessation of the monotonous tones of her voice. It was 
clear to her that his thoughts were engrossed with 
something else. 

“ Gilbert!” she said, softly. 

He started. 

“ You have not been paying the slightest attention to 
what I have been reading!” 

“ I — I really beg your pardon, Dora. I believe I was 
thinking of something else.” 

Mrs. Torrington laid the paper beside her on the 
table. 


A HARD LESSON. 89 

“Then it is hardly worth my while to go on reading. ” 

“ Please do. I will listen now,” he said penitently. 

“No. I can see that yon are not inclined for the 
newspaper. Suppose, instead, that you tell me what 
you were thinking about.” 

He turned his face slowly toward her. For a mo- 
ment his eyes looked questioningly into hers. 

“Would you really like me to tell you? I wonder if 
I might?” 

“ My dear boy,” with a little laugh, “ as if there was 
anything you might not tell me ! Are we not pals — the 
best of pals?” 

“Yes,” he repeated, slowly; “that is true. The best 
of pals.” And then he was silent again for so many 
minutes that she began to wonder if he was ever going 
to speak again. 

“Well?” she said playfully, at last, laying her hand 
caressingly upon his. 

He started at her touch. Then, with a quick, little 
in-drawn breath, in which there was a trace of nervous- 
ness, he said quickly : 

“ I will tell you. Dora, since I have been lying up- 
stairs I have had lots of time to think, and I have 
thought a great deal about many things. ” 

“About me, I hope,” with a pitiful attempt at play- 
fulness. 

“Well, yes; about you — about you, mainly, I be- 
lieve,” he admitted. Yet somehow this assurance did 
not stop that cold, sick numbness that had begun to 
creep slowly but surely into her heart. 

“That- was nice of you,” she said — still, poor woman, 
bent upon shutting her eyes to her own fears. 

“You know,” he went on, rather quickly, and not 
meeting her eyes, but plucking nervously with his thin 


9 ° 


A HARD LESSON. 


fingers at the gimp of the arm-chair ; “ you know how 
long it is that we have been friends — nearly ten years, 
I believe.” 

“ Seven years exactly, on the fourth of last August,” 
she amended, in a matter-of-fact voice. 

“ Well, ten or seven — it is pretty much the same. It 
is half one’s youth, anyhow,” with a little uneasy laugh. 
“ It is long enough, in any case, to grow wise, to see 
things in a clearer light; to ” 

“To change , you mean,” she put in, quickly. 

“ Well, y-e-s, if you like to put it that way — to change — 
it is your own word, Dora. You see, I was very 
young. I was very fond of you— — ” She winced at 
the “ was. ” Even a dead love can be raked up into pain 
at a thoughtless word. 

“ I — I mean we — always hoped, of course, that things 
might look brighter — that if I got Uncle Ashworth’s 
money, for instance — or that those shares of yours in 
the Transvaal mines had turned out trumps, instead of 
smashing up altogether. Of course it would have been 
very nice if it had been possible ; and if we had been 
able to marry I dare say we should have been very 
happy. But as it is — as it is ” and his voice sud- 

denly failed and died away into silence. 

She got up from her chair and walked away to the 
window, and stood for some moments looking out of it 
with her back to the room. 

The snow fell softly and thick ; the park was a sheet 
of white already; the distance was blotted out in a 
vague, indistinct whiteness. She stood looking at the 
familiar scene decked in the unfamiliar garment of 
winter — stood while the moments sped quickly away 
and the clock ticked the time behind her in unison to 
the beating of her throbbing pulses. And still the 


A HARD LESSON. 


91 


snow-flakes kept on falling, falling, falling, like the 
hopes and joys of her own spoilt and broken life! 

Presently she turned round and faced him. 

“ Say at once that you are sick of me — say it at once, 
honestly !” she cried brokenly. 

“ My dear girl, ” with a deprecating gesture and 
smile, “why call things by ugly names? Do you not 
think yourself that it is time this unsatisfactory state of 
things came to an end?” 

“You have fallen in love with some one else,” she 
said angrily. 

“ No — I swear I have not — I swear it!” 

“Then — I will not let you go. Why should I? I 
have your written promise.” 

“ Give it to me back, Dora,” he pleaded, “ and let us 
put it in the fire. Surely it is time to end the farce — 
the thing is dead.” 

“ It may be dead to you,” she answered passionately, 
“ and the love you once swore to keep for me may in- 
deed seem to you but a farce ; but to me — to me it is 
neither dead nor farcical. I will not let you go for 
three years more. I have your promise to be true to 
me. If I lose you now, what future is there for me 
save to sit by while you transfer to some other woman 
the faith which you have given to me? Do you think I 
could do this? — could endure to be set aside, pushed 
away out of your life, as though I had never belonged 
to it? It would break my heart.” 

For the moment she believed that it would. Her 
anger and her vanity made her think that she loved him 
too well to lose him. As a fact, her love had long ago 
been merged and swallowed up in her intense selfish- 
ness. No thought of him, of his future, his happiness, 
came into her mind. Only the appalling prospect of 


92 


A HARD LESSON. 


her own loss — of the dulness and monotony of a life 
bereft of the sweet flattery of his attendance, and shorn 
of all the glory of her conquest of him, which had been 
so long acknowledged by the world. It hurt her hor- 
ribly that he should have ceased to love her ; but it 
was her vanity that was hurt, not her heart. 

She was a woman incapable of self-sacrifice, and in- 
capable, therefore, of the highest order of affection. 
Love, to her, meant self-indulgence and the gratifica- 
tion of her own personal inclinations — not that tender 
and holy care for the happiness of another which is 
almost a religion in the soul of an unselfish woman. 

“ I will not let you go,” she said at length in a low, 
concentrated voice. “ I have hoped too long, waited 
for too many years for that chance which at any mo- 
ment a lucky turn of the wheel of fortune may still 
bring to us. I have your written words, and I have 
what is still more impossible for you to break: your 
honor, which binds you to me for three years more. 
After that I will let you go free — not before.” 

In her blind and senseless anger poor Dora forgot 
that for a woman to keep a man whose heart has grown 
cold to her is as impossible a task as to chain the winds 
or bid the restless waves stand still. 

And deep down in her heart a sure and certain in- 
stinct said to her — 

“ It is that girl. Is it her money, after all, that 
tempts him? Or has he fallen in love with her because 
she scrambled across half-a-dozen wet fields to send a 
couple of men and a hurdle to pick him up? Men are 
such fools. It is possible that this not very heroic per- 
formance has conjured up some sort of glamour about 
her in his mind. Oh, if I could only find out some- 
thing discreditable about her ! Something that would 
make him take a dislike to her!” 


CHAPTER XI. 


It was the old story. He was tired to death of her! 

Constancy is not a masculine virtue. In fact only 
the marriage bond and its irrevocable exactions can be 
reckoned on to keep a man’s faith immaculate. And 
not always then, indeed, for there are husbands over 
whom even marriage vows are powerless. Yet to one 
who is honestly and conscientiously anxious to do his 
duty, the ties of married life certainly constitute a safe- 
guard such as his own unfettered heart would never 
supply. Hence, no doubt, the peril of long engage- 
ments — of lovers bound by love alone, and not by law, 
and the wisdom of the old adage that says, “ Happy’s 
the wooing that’s not long a-doing. ” Familiarity, jar- 
rings of temper, selfishness and worldly wisdom, all 
lead a man’s heart infallibly in time to satiety, and 
where satiety once sets in then farewell indeed to love 
and its faithfulness. Then, perhaps, there comes across 
the troubled and possibly remorseful mind of the lover 
a new element — a fresh face! A face younger and 
fairer possibly than hers he knows so well — too well, 
since he can trace upon it the growth of the tiny 
wrinkles that steal into the once fresh and blooming 
cheek, and perceive with painful accuracy the advent 
of a silver hair among the radiant tresses. The new 
face, as a. matter of course, soon ousts the old from his 
heart ; and brighter eyes and rosier lips provoke him to 
longings such as her too-familiar features have no 
power to awaken. After that his faithlessness can be 

93 


94 


A HARD LESSON. 


predicted with certainty. It has become a mere matter 
of time. 

Gilbert Nugent, it may be safely averred, did not 
love Mrs. Torrington any the better for her trying con- 
versation recorded in the last chapter. Neither were 
the relations between the two in any way improved or 
ameliorated thereby. 

A sort of dull dislike to her began to grow up within 
him. The tie had become irksome, and she had neither 
the wit to perceive it nor the generosity to loosen it. 
She had appealed to his honor, and by his honor he still 
conceived it to be his duty to abide ; but he took no 
delight in bowing to the claims of this unwelcome 
duty. 

And in proportion as his heart grew colder and harder 
toward her, so did his dawning interest in Helen 
Dacre thrive and flourish. 

Helen’s attitude toward himself provoked and tor- 
mented him. He thought about her constantly, lis- 
tened for her footstep and her voice, and watched her 
furtively and with interest. 

It may be easily imagined that all these signs and 
tokens did not escape Mrs. Torrington ’s notice. A sure 
instinct made her keenly alive to them, and a passion 
of jealousy raged at her heart toward the other woman, 
younger and fairer than herself. 

She was forced, however, to admit that Helen took 
no more notice of Nugent than she did of the silent 
figures in armor at the foot of the oak staircase. 

During the next few days the invalid improved rap- 
idly in health and strength, and began to take his place 
as before in the family circle. 

A day came when a rapid thaw that caused the disap- 
pearance of the snow as by magic, and a warm and sun- 


A HARD LESSON. 95 

shiny morning induced the doctor to recommend that 
his patient should go out for a drive. 

Lady Camilla ordered the barouche, and it was ar- 
ranged that she and Dora should drive the convalescent 
man to the meet, while Mr. Greyson and Helen were 
to follow the hounds. 

The riders started first, and the barouche came round 
to the door just five minutes after the disappearance 
of the two horses along the drive. Dora was standing 
by herself just inside the open front door, and the foot- 
man was by the carriage outside, when she heard a step 
upon the gravel, and the voice of a stranger inquiring 
if Miss Dacre was in. The servant replied that she 
was not. 

“ But she is staying here, is she not?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Can you tell me when she is likely to be in?” 

“ I could not say, sir,” was the well-trained domestic’s 
discreet reply. 

Dora, impelled by curiosity, came forward and looked 
out. Outside the door stood a man who might have be- 
longed almost to any class of life. He might have been 
a shabby gentleman, or he might have been a respect- 
ably dressed tradesman. 

Dora’s first impression, indeed, was that he was a 
dun, and had come to press for the payment of a bill. 
He had a reddish beard, sloping shoulders, and a nar- 
row chest, and about the worst hat and boots that she 
had ever beheld. 

Judging him by his outer man, she decided without 
hesitation that he was not a gentleman, and demanded 
of him somewhat imperiously what he wanted. 

The stranger turned roimd, lifted his detestably bad 
hat from a high forehead crowned with a thatch of sandy 


9 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


hair, and replied that he wished particularly to see Miss 
Dacre. 

The voice was that of an educated man, and Mrs. 
Torrington perceived that her first impression had done 
him an injustice. 

“ Miss Dacre has just gone out hunting. Did you not 
meet her riding down the drive ?” 

“No. I must have come by the other road, ” answered 
the stranger. 

“ You will be sure to see her if you call again about 
five o’clock,” said Mrs. Torrington politely, wondering 
who this shabby-genteel young man could possibly be. 
He shook his head. 

“ I am afraid I shall be unable to do that — very im- 
portant affairs — obliged to return to London by the four 
o’clock train. I only came on business for one night in 
this neighborhood.” 

“ Can I give any message for you to Miss Dacre?” 

“ I am much obliged to you. No ; there is nothing 
but what I can write. But perhaps you will kindly give 
her my card?” He took one out of his pocket and gave 
it to her. Then he raised his hat and walked away 
down the road. 

Mrs. Torrington looked down at the card. On it was 
inscribed in large roman characters, “ Mr. Frederick 
Warne,” and in the corner, “Classical Professor, South 
London High School.” 

She turned it over contemptuously. It was a vulgar 
little card — not the kind of card which, in the world to 
which she was accustomed, a gentleman would have had 
printed to leave upon his acquaintances. 

“It is like a tradesman’s circular,” she muttered. 
“ What can such a dreadful-looking person have to do 
with Helen Dacre, I wonder?” Then she slipped the 


A HARD LESSON. 


97 


card into her pocket, and determined to be guided by 
circumstances. 

Lady Camilla and Nugent now appeared upon the 
scene, and the barouche set forth. Helen had a 
thoroughly enjoyable day’s hunting, and rode her hand- 
some horse straightly and well, earning Mr. Greyson’s 
approbation and gaining confidence in herself and her 
animal by her performances. 

When she got home it was late, and she was tired. 
Naturally she had seen nothing of the party in the car- 
riage, who had, in fact, returned in time for luncheon. 
Lady Camilla was still sitting by the tea-table in the 
hall when her husband and Helen came in. Merely 
removing her hat, the girl sank down wearily upon the 
nearest chair, as she accepted her hostess’s offer of a 
cup of tea. 

“ You have had a nice day, my dear?” inquired Lady 
Camilla kindly, as she handed her the tea. 

“Oh, it has been delightful!” cried Helen, with en- 
thusiasm. “ I certainly think that hunting is the most 
perfect amusement in the world!” 

“And you went very well, my dear — very well,” said 
the master of the house approvingly, as he stood upon 
the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, gulping down 
his tea. “ Ted would have been proud of you. You 
only want a little more experience to do very well in- 
deed. Where’s Dora?” turning to his wife. 

“ She is upstairs, deep in the delights of a huge pack- 
ing-case which has just arrived from her dressmaker’s. 
Her new ball-dress, I believe.” 

“ Why doesn’t she come out, too — instead of pottering 
about all day after Nugent? She’ll never make half 
the sportswoman that Helen is even now. The fact is 
7 


9 8 


A HARD LESSON. 


she is eaten up with vanity. Clothes and flirtations! — 
she thinks of nothing else.” 

“Oh, poor Dora!” laughed Lady Camilla, good- 
naturedly. “You are rather hard upon her, Tom. She 
rides very nicely, and, of course, you can’t expect her 
to be so keen about hunting as a young thing like 
Helen, who is new to it. Besides, everybody isn’t 
alike. She can’t at her age be expected to change her 
nature.” 

“More’s the pity,” replied her husband gruffly. 
“ Dora might change most things that are natural to 
her with advantage. ” 

And then he stalked away to his study, slamming the 
door energetically behind him as he went out. 

There were a few minutes of silence. Lady Camilla, 
who always had on hand a long piece of gray woolen 
crochet, which she called her “ poor-work, ” and which 
was destined at some remote period to keep the cold out 
of some old woman’s rheumatic bones — plied her long 
bone needle industriously; and Helen sipped her tea, 
gazing reflectively into the fire as she did so. 

“ Lady Camilla,” she said at last. 

‘ Yes, my love.” 

“ I wish you would tell me something I want to know 
very much. ” 

“Certainly, Helen, if I can. What is it?” 

“ Is Mrs. Torrington engaged to be married to Mr. 
Nugent or not?” 

Lady Camilla counted six stitches of her gray worsted, 
cast off four, and knit two together before she made any 
reply. Then she said, slowly and rather hesitatingly : 

“No, I should say not. What makes you think 
she is?” 

“ Everything. She takes possession of him. She 


A HARD LESSON. 


99 


calls him by his Christian name. She seems devoted 
to him.” 

“My dear child,” said Lady Camilla, after another 
little pause, during which a great many things rushed 
headlong through her mind — a desire to take advantage 
of the opportunity presented to her, a desire to say noth- 
ing unjust or compromising to her cousin, and, above 
all, a desire to be exceedingly discreet — to say enough, 
and yet not to say too much. All these conflicting 
claims caused her to take h.er time about answering. 

“ I am rather perplexed how to answer your ques- 
tion,” she began at last. “ Certainly there is a great 
friendship on both sides, dating from many years ago, 
which accounts for the familiarities you mention — 
which do not, however, in themselves amount to any- 
thing at all. It is possible, indeed, that at one time 
the friendship might possibly have led to marriage.” 

“Ah! then they love each other?” Helen said, rather 
breathlessly, leaning forward in her chair. 

“No, I don’t think so. That sort of thing is over, 
and — to be frank with you — well, I will tell you a se- 
cret. ” Lady Camilla lowered her voice to a whisper. 
“ Dear Dora is a little bit led away by foolish vanity in 
the matter. She shuts her eyes, I fancy, to what every- 
body else has seen long ago. Poor Gilbert is tired of 
her!” 

“ Poor Gilbert, indeed!” cried Helen, indignantly. 
“ I think it is horrid of him — horrid!” 

“ Oh, my dear, how can he help it? All men do tire 
in time.” 

“ Then all men are contemptible ! If he has loved her 
once he should love her forever ! True love is eternal !” 

“ Ah, my dear child, that is merely the delusion of 
your youth and ignorance. You will find out that it 


I oo 


A HARD LESSON. 


is not at all the case as you grow older and wiser,” 
laughed Lady Camilla softly. And then she placed her 
finger suddenly upon her lip and whispered, “ Hush!” 

The door behind her had opened quietly and Gilbert 
Nugent entered. 

“You are back from hunting?” he said, looking at 
Helen, who made no answer. 

“Yes; they have had a capital day,” replied Lady 
Camilla briskly; and then suddenly she made some 
curiously convulsive jerks with her worsted and crochet- 
needle. 

“There!” she exclaimed; “I’ve done it again! 
Dropped all my stitches, and got the wool into a 
tangle ! and my eyes are so bad I can never put it right 
myself. Here, Helen, you are young; you must do it 
for me,” and she dropped the “poor-work” bodily into 
Helen’s lap. “ Get it right, please, my dear, before 
you go up to dress. I must rush and see if my good 
man wants me before the post goes out.” 

“And if he doesn’t say something interesting to her 
in the twenty minutes it will take her to do that job,” 
she said to herself, as she hurried away, “ Gilbert Nu- 
gent isn’t the man I take him for. Dora is safe out of 
the way, and anybody with half an eye can see who he 
is in love with. Well, I’ll give him a chance, anyhow; 
poor Gilbert ! What a splendid thing it would be for 
him, to be sure! And till that girl is married to some- 
body else I really shall never be sure of Bainton.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


Helen and Gilbert Nugent were left alone. For 
some moments neither of them spoke a word. Helen 
drew her chair nearer to the table upon which stood the 
lamp, and occupied herself industriously in endeavor- 
ing to unravel Lady Camilla’s tangled worsted. Nu- 
gent sat opposite to her, devouring her with his eyes. 

Her hair was somewhat ruffled out of its habitual 
order; her face was a little flushed with her gallop 
through the fresh air; her lithe young figure, in its 
close-fitting habit, bent low over her task, and her long 
eyelashes swept in a dark shadow upon her cheek. Nu- 
gent had no inclination for some minutes to break the 
silence. His eyes took in every detail of her face and 
form and revelled in its fascination. As he watched 
the long, slender fingers moving dexterously in and out 
of the coarse gray worsted, he told himself that they 
were weaving the meshes of his fate. It was something 
to sit and watch her unreproved ; and yet probably be- 
cause the heart of man is never satisfied, and his de- 
sires forever unappeased, the picture, delightful as it 
was, presently seemed to him to be incomplete unless 
those veiled lids might be uplifted so that he might see 
the eyes beneath them. 

To accomplish this object he broke the silence at last. 

“ Miss Dacre, wont you look at me?” 

“I have got something more important to look at,” 
she replied demurely. 

“ Something more interesting, no doubt?” 


IOI 


102 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Much more interesting. ” This with the ghost of a 
smile ; but the eyes that he longed to see never lifted 
themselves for so much as for a second from the “ poor- 
work. ” He grew desperate. 

All at once he reached forward his hand, and laid it 
upon both hers, holding them and the “poor- work,” 
needle and all, firmly together. 

“ But I will make you look at me ! I will make you 
speak to me! You shall not scorn and insult me any 
longer! I will not endure it!” 

Her hands lay passive beneath his grasp, upon her 
knee. She did not struggle to free them ; she made no 
sign of resentment, although her color deepened; but 
she did not lift her .eyes. 

“ It is impossible,” he went on, with agitation, “that 
because of that stupid speech you overheard weeks ago, 
before I had ever seen you — before I knew what you 
were — that you can go on sending me into an everlast- 
ing Coventry. ” ^ 

“ I have only forbidden you to speak to me.” 

“ But I never promised that I would not.” 

The smile broadened upon her face. 

“ No. You would have kept such a promise very 
badly, I fancy.” 

“ Shockingly badly. Helen ! have you sworn not to 
look at me? For goodness’ sake lift your eyes!” 

“ If you will take your hand from mine, and if you 
will apologize for calling me by my Christian name, 
and promise ” 

“ I will promise anything — apologize for everything!” 
he cried, obliging her also in the matter of the hand, 
“ if only you will look at me and say you forgive me.” 

And then, at last, she did look up. But somehow, 
instead of the cold and angry harshness which had 


A HARD LESSON. 


103 

always greeted him out of their deep gray depths, there 
was something in her eyes that was new and unexpected 
— something of trouble and of vague disturbance. 

“ I will forgive you if you really wish it,” she said 
softly. “ As you say, it is past, and we cannot keep up 
resentment forever. It would be childish, I suppose. 
Anything is better than this tragic and dramatic state 
of things. Don’t let us say anything more about it. I 
will try and forget that unlucky remark of yours, and I 
will try to be civil to you. ” 

“ Civil ! I ask for bread and you give me a stone ! I 
want your friendship, your interest. And yet, no ; that 
is not true — for I want more — I want more than that 
from you.” 

He was close to her now — bending down toward her. 
There was passion in his voice and in his eager eyes. 
She arose hurriedly from her chair. 

“You have no right — no right,” she stammered 
brokenly, and began rolling the “ poor- work ” hastily to- 
gether with nervous, trembling hands. 

“ Don’t go — don’t go! Listen to me at least.” 

“ I cannot listen, ” she answered, turning away. “ You 
can have nothing to say to me — nothing!” 

And all the time she seemed to hear a voice that 
cried to her, “ He is false— he is false ! He has already 
given his faith to another. You must not .hear what he 
has to say.” 

It was a cruel voice — a voice against which her heart 
rebelled and fought, and yet which compelled her to 
listen and to obey. 

“Why are you frightened of me?” he persisted, fol- 
lowing her to the foot of the staircase. “ If you knew 
— if I might only tell you all that I want to say ” 

But he never did tell her. For at that very moment 


104 


A HARD LESSON. 


there was a little scornful laugh from over their heads, 
and a mocking voice cried out from the landing above : 

“ Are yoM two playing at hide-and-seek, may I ask? 
Or is it ‘Catch me if you can,’ or ‘Kiss in the ring?”’ 

Mrs. Torrington, in soft, white silk — the kind of silk 
that does not rustle, and gives no warning of its ap- 
proach — was coming down the staircase out of the gloom 
of the wide landing above. 

Crimson with shame and annoyance, poor Helen 
darted upstairs, brushing by her without so much as a 
look or a word, and fled tumultuously along the cor- 
ridor to her own room. 

Dora laughed anew as she came on slowly down the 
staircase. 

“ Were you making love to Miss Dacre, Gilbert?” 

He looked supremely foolish, as a man is apt to do 
whefi he is found out doing something he is ashamed of. 

“ My dear Dora, how perfectly ridiculous ! Why 
should I make love to Miss Dacre, pray?” 

“ I am sure I don’t know,” with a little shrug of the 
shoulders; “but Uncle Ashworth’s money might, per- 
haps, afford a clue to the mystery.” 

Nugent looked furious. She could hardly have said 
anything to anger him more. It was probably why she 
said it — an intimate knowledge of his character giving 
her the whip hand over him. He turned away from 
her with an oath which he took no trouble to conceal. 

“You need not swear at me,” she said coldly. “Of 
course I am not a fool, and I see a great many things 
you had rather I did not see ; but I advise you not to 
provoke me with regard to Helen Dacre. You see, I 
can so very easily spoil your game, my poor boy, if you 
were to try me too far. It would be hardly worth your 
while to attempt it, would it?” 


A HARD LESSON. 


105 


That evening, when dinner was over, and the ladies 
were alone in the drawing-room — Lady Camilla having 
settled herself down in her own particular arm-chair 
with the evening paper on her lap for her habitual 
after-dinner snooze — Mrs. Torrington came softly across 
the room and sat down on the sofa by Helen’s side. 

There was a conciliatory smile on her pretty childish 
face, and she laid her hand caressingly upon Helen’s as 
she sat down beside her. 

“ My dear child, I do hope you are not vexed with 
me for laughing at you and Gilbert Nugent this 
evening?” 

“ Vexed, Mrs. Torrington — how could I be vexed? I 
fear, on the contrary, that it was I who unwittingly an- 
noyed you. ” Helen felt dreadfully uncomfortable and 
self-conscious as she said this, and she blurted out her 
words lamely and nervously. 

Mrs. Torrington pressed her hand affectionately, and 
smiled anew. 

“ Oh, no, my dear Helen, I was not in the very least 
annoyed. How could I be?” she said, sweetly. “I 
ought not to have laughed ; but you have no idea how 
funny you and Gilbert looked running across the hall 
after each other!” 

Helen reddened. To have felt oneself to be at the 
very crisis of one’s life, and to be told afterward that 
one has looked “ funny” in that situation, is perhaps the 
most galling imputation that a human being can be 
called upon to endure. 

“ I really quite thought for the first minute that you 
were playing at a new kind of game together. I really 
did!” continued Dora serenely; “but of course it was 
only some of Gilbert’s nonsense, as he told me after- 
ward. He is such a terrible flirt, you know. But 


106 A HARD LESSON. 

then, he is a dear, naughty fellow, and it means noth- 
ing at all with him.” 

“ He told you — he told you that — that he had been 
flirting with me?” inquired Helen grimly, looking at 
her straightly with a hard, angry look in her eyes. 

“ Oh, not, of course, in so many words,” laughed Mrs. 
Torrington, quite gayly. “ But I understand his little 
ways so well, and you know I have such implicit faith 
in my dear Gilbert — he has been so devoted to me for 
years — so true and so constant, dear fellow, that I never 
object to his amusing himself with a pretty girl, by a 
little harmless flirtation. I could not be so ungenerous, 
could I, knowing how loving and loyal to me he really 
is at heart?” 

There was a little silence. Helen looked straight be- 
fore her. Her lips were pressed closely together, and 
in the eyes that her companion could not see — be- 
cause she had turned her head a little away — there 
was the dreary blank of a miserable despair. For at 
that moment she knew what perhaps nothing but that 
grinding, aching pain at her heart could have fully 
revealed to her — that she loved Gilbert Nugent ! When 
she spoke at last, there was no signal of distress to be 
detected in either voice or face. 

“ You and he are lovers, then? You love each other? 
It is what I had thought and guessed. I am very glad 
that you are happy. ” 

Then she rose quietly from her place, and went across 
the room to find Lady Camilla’s work-basket and the 
still dilapidated “ poor work” of grey worsted, which she 
had left before dinner in a worse plight than before. 
She did not go back to talk to Mrs. Torrington again. 

There was a tumult of anger and of misery at her 
heart ; but worse than either was the burning anguish 


A HARD LESSON. 


107 


of a shame which seemed to strike at her very life — 
shame that she should be made a sport for these two 
who loved one another. Perhaps he had guessed her 
secret — perhaps, in spite of her animosity and her 
resentment, he had perceived the dreadful truth which 
she herself had only this hour discovered — had seen 
through her paltry pretence of enmity, and pitied her, 
no doubt, for her supreme foolishness. 

Well, a woman, thank God, has always her pride to 
fall back upon ; and for all the agony that tore at her 
soul, Helen had the fortitude to hide her wounds, and 
to present a calm and smiling face to her tormentor. 
The sound of the door, as it opened to admit the gen- 
tlemen, went through her head like the stab of a knife. 

She did not look up, but she knew that Gilbert 
Nugent was in the room — knew, too, that he was com- 
ing straight toward the little table where she sat at 
work. 

“What! not done with that unfortunate ‘poor work’ 
yet?” said his cheery voice, close over her head. She 
looked up and forced herself to smile — to smile as 
though she did not care. 

“No; it takes time, you see. Lady Camilla will be 
wanting it presently,” she answered mechanically, 
without a very clear idea of what she was saying. 

Nugent sat down, as though by fatality, upon a chair 
next to her own. 

Why did he not go to his own Dora, to whom he was 
so true and constant? Why did he press his meaning- 
less attentions upon a girl whom he despised and 
derided? 

“ By the way, Helen — ” she looked up quickly. Mrs. 
Torrington stood beside her — from the other side of 
the room she had swooped down upon them both. The 


io8 


A HARD LESSON. 


case was urgent and needed desperate measures. “ I 
quite forgot to tell you — a gentleman called upon you 
this morning.” 

“ A gentleman! Upon me, Mrs. Torrington?” 

“ Yes, and he was so sorry to miss you. He left all 
sorts of pretty messages with me for you. Was it not 
careless and stupid of me to forget to tell you about 
him?” 

“ I cannot think who you mean. Who could it have 
been?” said Helen, perplexedly. “ I don’t think I know 
a gentleman in the world who could possibly want to 
see me.” 

“ Oh, he wanted to see you most dreadfully ! I assure 
you I scented quite a little romance in the poor fellow’s 
disappointed face when he found you were out. He 
could not call again, he said ; but I was to give you his 
love and to say he would write to you, and he was so — 
so sorry to miss you — ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Torrington, you quite bewilder me. 
I cannot conceive who it could have been.” 

Nugent was looking at her keenly. She could almost 
feel his eyes upon her. 

“ I can’t remember his name, but he gave me his 
card. Ah, here it is ! I have it in my pocket. ” 

She laid the scrap of cardboard upon the little table 
between them. 

There it lay — face uppermost — with its little vulgar 
characters staring at her. 

“Mr. Frederick Warne.” 

Nugent read the name too. Then he looked back at 
her, and saw that she was as white as ashes. 

“ Who is it? — who is Mr. Frederick Warne when he 
is at home, pray?” he asked, with a sort of breathless 
intensity. 


A HARD LESSON. 


IO9 

“ He is only the nephew of my old school-mistress,” 
she stammered. 

“ Is that all?” with a gasp of relief. 

“ Yes; that is all,” she answered, and put the offend- 
ing card quickly away into her pocket. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A more brilliant spectacle than was to be witnessed 
in the Town Hall, at Oldchester, on the night of the 
Meadowshire Hunt Ball, it would indeed be difficult to 
imagine. 

The large and lofty rooms, decorated with flags and 
colored bunting, and splendidly illuminated, were 
admirably suited to the purpose. The music was of 
the best, the supper excellent, and the floor all that 
could be desired. Everybody congratulated the busy 
stewards upon the great and unqualified success of the 
evening. The rooms were thronged. Never within 
the memory of man — said the country squires and 
squiresses who lined the walls, to one another — had 
there been known such a well-attended and thoroughly 
delightful ball. 

Meadowshire is famous for its pretty women, and 
the fair sex, whose charms were for the most part 
enhanced by smart London-made dresses, and by many 
splendid and flashing diamonds, had mustered in great 
force ; while the crowds of hunting men, in their scarlet 
dress-coats, added an eclat to the gay scene which the 
presence of the male sex in its depressing and dismal 
ordinary evening costume does not usually afford. 

But numerous and dazzlingly attired as were the 
beautiful women in the room, there were still many 
people who looked with interest after a tall, graceful 
girl clad in white, and not a few were the questions 


no 


A HARD LESSON. 


Ill 


asked, and the favorable criticisms passed concerning 
her. 

“ Lord Baintoii’s ward, is she? She is a very striking- 
looking girl,” said one man to another. 

“Yes; not exactly beautiful, and yet there is some- 
thing almost better than beauty about her ; she is very 
attractive. ” 

“ She is an heiress, too, I hear,” said the first speaker. 
“ Old Ashworth left her all his money. ” 

“Lucky Lord Bainton!” ejaculated the other signifi- 
cantly. 

“ Oh! is that his game, do you suppose?” 

“ Bound to be, I should think. An old bachelor, 
when he thinks of marriage, should look out for a young 
and handsome wife, and the money is no drawback, 
naturally.” 

“ But young Greyson was to be his heir, I thought.” 

“ Not likely — he detests his brother-in-law. Besides, 
he is not the man to allow such a chance to slip.” 

“ Ah ! poor Lady Camilla. She has a formidable 
rival — the girl is charming.” 

And the two speakers moved away. 

Now the whole of this conversation was overheard 
by no less a person than Lord Bainton himself. He 
was not addicted to dancing, and it was many years 
since he had been present at such a scene as this. But 
as some of the party from the house where he was stay- 
ing were going to the ball, he suddenly expressed a 
desire to join them, and, somewhat to the surprise of 
his hosts, he took his place in the private omnibus 
when it came round to the door after dinner to convey 
the ball-goers a ten miles’ drive into Oldchester. 

The fact is, that a secret desire to see what his ward 
would look like at her f rst ball, and to notice the effect 


I 12 


A HARD LESSON. 


she produced upon others, had made him determine to 
be present upon the occasion. 

The party he was with arrived somewhat late, and it 
was while pressing in among the crowd about the 
doorway that he caught sight of the graceful, white- 
robed figure of his ward as she was whirled by in the 
throng of the waltzers, and became at the same time 
an unwilling listener to the conversation above recorded 
concerning her and himself. 

After the speakers had gone, he remained for some 
moments leaning against the frame of the doorway, 
plunged in thought. It cannot be said with truth that 
such an idea as these two gossips had suggested was 
absolutely new to him, because the thought had already 
arisen within his heart many times before; but to 
hear it put into words for the first time by other people 
did certainly give a fresh impetus to the hitherto 
scarcely acknowledged desire. 

“Why not?” he said to himself, as he stood there, 
watching the gay, revolving throng. “ Why not?” 

He had a shrinking horror of making himself ridicu- 
lous — a morbid terror of what people would say of him. 
If he had heard them call him an old fool, or a conceited 
donkey, it is quite possible that he would have told 
himself that the idea was folly ; and that he would have 
dismissed it from his mind as impracticable. But these 
two men, who had discussed the subject so glibly, had 
not seemed to think it ridiculous at all. On the 
contrary. 

“ An old bachelor should look out for a young and 
handsome wife,” they had said. “Well, why not — 
why not?” 

Their words had set him thinking deeply. 

As he stood there, Helen on the arm of her partner — 


A HARD LESSON. 


113 

a young fellow who, despite his youthful appearance, 
was evidently an excellent dancer — passed once more 
close before him in the crowd. He could not help 
noticing with critical eyes to which a new motive for 
criticism was imparted, how exceedingly charming 
and graceful she looked. His blood, despite his sixty 
years, beat a little quicker in his veins at the sight of 
her fairness. Was all this beauty destined to be for 
him, perchance? He could not help drawing a picture 
of her in his imagination, embellished by the family 
diamonds which now lay uselessly in the strong box at 
his banker’s, and adorned by all the prestige and eclat 
of his own name and position. She would become that 
position well, he thought. He was fond and proud of 
her now as his ward — he would be fonder and prouder 
of her still as his wife! And, after all, why not? 
What was there to prevent his doing as he liked? Ted 
Greyson was a very nice boy, certainly, and his own 
godson. But a man is not bound to sacrifice himself 
for his godson. He was fond of Camilla, and if she 
felt disappointed he should be sorry ; but of course he 
could not help that. Besides, as that man had truly 
said, he detested his brother-in-law. Why on earth 
should he not consider his own claims before those of 
his relations? Why not, indeed? 

Man being an inherently selfish animal, as is well 
known, seldom continues this line of argument long. 
The matter is very soon settled, and always in the same 
direction — his own favor. 

Lord Bainton speedily came to the conclusion that 
Camilla and her son would have to go to the wall, and 
that he should certainly do as he liked. After which 
he walked across the ball-room, the waltz having just 
come to an end, and shook hands with his ward. 

8 


A HARD LESSON. 


114 

“ I must congratulate you upon your toilette, my 
dear; upon your charming appearance altogether, and 
upon your evident success,” he said, as he pressed her 
small, white-gloved hand affectionately. 

Helen, flushed with her dance, and with the heat of 
the room, was looking her best ; her eyes shone with 
innocent pleasure at her guardian’s kind words. She 
was genuinely and thoroughly fond of him. 

“I am so glad you like my dress,” she answered, 
simply and gratefully. * 

“ Is your card quite full?” 

“ Quite, I am afraid. But if you would like me to 
give up a dance and sit and talk to you ” 

His face fell a little. 

“ Oh, you think me too old for a partner, I suppose?” 
he answered, with a little annoyance. “ I suppose you 
think I have forgotten how to dance!” 

“ Oh, no, no ! dear Lord Bainton ! Of course I don’t !” 
cried Helen eagerly. “ I’ll dance with you with 
pleasure — any dance you like. ” 

And so the astonishing spectacle was soon displayed, 
to the whole town and county there assembled, of Lord 
Bainton standing up by his young ward’s side in a set 
of “ Lancers. ” 

It may be imagined that Lady Camilla beheld 
this wonderful sight with eyes of extreme dismay and 
disfavor. 

Her brother’s face, radiant with satisfaction and 
beaming with smiles, filled her with horrible appre- 
hensions. The way in which he turned toward his 
youthful partner, bobbing his head toward her to 
whisper in her ear, and bending with old-fashioned 
gallantry over her hand, struck her with a cold chill of 
consternation. 


A HARD LESSON. 


“5 

She had been right, then, in her surmises. Bainton 
was evidently fascinated by the girl. She had never 
known him distinguish any unmarried woman by such 
attentions. Within the memory of man no one had 
ever seen Lord Bainton dance before. 

“It is monstrous — horrible!” she whispered .to her 
husband, who stood by her. “ He is making himself 
conspicuous and ridiculous to the whole room. What 
is to be done to stop it? Oh, Tom, think of our poor 
Ted. What a cruel injury it will be to his prospects!” 

“I’ve always told you not to reckon upon your 
brother, my dear. Bainton was never to be trusted. 
He was bound to marry some day. Better put Ted’s 
prospects out of your thoughts; he must take his 
chance. ” And then the good man, who did not take 
the matter very deeply to heart, moved away to speak 
to some acquaintances, and Lady Camilla was left to 
bear her trouble alone. 

For it was a dreadful trouble to her. Ted was her 
idol, and her ambitions for him were insatiable. Old 
Park, though a beautiful place, was by no means a rich 
inheritance. Its expenses were greater than its 
resources. She had her husband had always lived 
extravagantly and quite up to the limits of their 
income. There had been losses, too, and charges on 
the estate, and old debts to be paid off. For many 
years Mr. Greyson had been crippled by the mountain- 
load of liabilities bequeathed to him by the elder 
brother whom he had succeeded. At his father’s death 
Ted was certain to be a poor man, and would in all 
probability be unable to live upon the property he 
would inherit. Old Park would have to be let — possi- 
bly even to be sold. But Lady Camilla had always 
.consoled herself by the reflection that her brother 


A HARD LESSON. 


II 6 

would die unmarried, and that Ted would, as a matter 
of course, be his heir. For that end she had always 
striven; and to keep her brother without a wife had 
been the effort of her life. His own indolence and 
selfishness had helped her. Bainton had been always 
unwilling to burden himself with the responsibilties of 
matrimony, and as he grew older his bachelor habits 
and customs increased upon him, so that she had long 
ceased to fear that he would change his way of life. 
Now, however, all her anxieties were renewed. The 
advent of this handsome ward of his had revolutionized 
the old gentleman’s existence. He had taken her 
abroad, he had devoted himself to her amusement, he 
evinced a lively interest in her progress, and even in 
her dresses. It was impossible to say where his infatu- 
ation would end. To-night he had actually gone out 
after his dinner at the risk of his digestion, and driven 
ten miles cramped up in a family omnibus in order to 
meet her at a ball; and now he was actually dancing 
with her ! There was n© knowing what would be the 
next step. Lady Camilla felt that despair was settling 
down upon her soul. 

As she stood straining her eyes to watch the faces of 
the couple in whom she took so painful an interest, a 
short laugh close beside her made her turn angrily 
round. 

“Poor dear Camilla! I really am sorry for you. It 
looks like an accomplished fact, doesn’t it?” And 
Dora Torrington, with mischief in her laughing eyes, 
made an almost imperceptible gesture with her fair 
head toward the moving figures in the dance. 

“ It is more than half your fault!” retorted her cousin 
angrily. “ If you had chosen you might have prevented 
it. You might still prevent it, in fact, if you liked.” 


A HARD LESSON. 


117 

“ Prevent an old man making a fool of himself? I 
really don’t see by what magical powers I should be 
able to do that.” 

“ If the girl could be brought to refuse him. ” 

“ If my dear Camilla. What girl in her senses 
would say ‘No’ to the Earl of Bainton, and the property 
in Cheshire, and the house in Portman Square, and the 
family diamonds, and, best of all, to the prospect of a 
widow’s jointure within an appreciable distance of 
time? No, no; your brother may be a fool — but most 
assuredly Helen Dacre is not one. She will jump at 
him !” 

“ Not if you would let Nugent fall in love with her, 
which he is quite ready to do.” 

“ Many thanks!” and there was a vicious flash in the 
child-like blue eyes. “ I don’t seem to see it. Gil- 
bert is a ‘poor thing’ doubtless, but still ‘all mine 
own. ’ ” 

“ If you were only commonly grateful to me, you 
would have made my brother flirt with you. It would 
have amused you, and done me a good service.” 

“ Because you know very well that he never would 
lose his head to the point of offering marriage to me ! 
Upon my word, Camilla, you have a most amusingly 
selfish way of looking at things.” 

“ Take care, Dora — you may carry your sneers too 
far. As to marriage, nobody will marry you, my dear 
girl ; neither my brother, nor Gilbert Nugent, nor any- 
body else!” She turned her back angrily upon her and 
moved away among the crowd. 

A partner came up to claim Mrs. Torrington for the 
next dance. There was no trace of vexation or discom- 
fiture in her smiling face as she placed her hand upon 
the young man’s arm, and answered some trifling com- 


n8 


A HARD LESSON. 


pliment with a coquettish glance and toss of her pretty 
head ; nor could he or any one else in the room have 
possibly guessed from her bright looks and pleasant 
manner what a tempest of rage and hatred was storming 
at her heart. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The Hunt Ball was nearly at an end. The crowd 
was rapidly thinning. There was room now to move 
about, to talk to one’s friends, and to enjoy oneself 
without being squashed into a pancake or smashed into 
a jelly. Nobody now trampled upon the tails of the 
ladies’ dresses, or stamped upon the gentlemen’s 
patent leather pumps. Above all, there was room to 
dance with ease and comfort ; and about fifty couples 
still spun vigorously and with unabated energy round 
and round the large square room. 

Helen for the moment was not dancing — she stood a 
little apart watching the rest. She was not at all tired, 
although her dark hair was a little ruffled, and her pretty 
dress showed signs of the night’s encounters. She had 
enjoyed herself on the whole very much indeed. She 
had danced every single dance, and she was conscious 
of having been admired and noticed. At twenty a 
young woman, however simple-minded, cannot be 
impervious to a success of this kind. Helen had 
frankly and honestly appreciated the little triumph 
which her fresh young charms had called forth. Her 
first ball had been a source of real enjoyment to her. 
And yet there was something wanting to her ! 

As she stood leaning back against the wall, fanning 
herself and looking at the dancers, she was quite able 
to put her finger accurately upon the “ crumpled rose 
leaf ” in her box. Gilbert Nugent had not once asked 
her to dance. The realization of this was very bitter 
to her. What was the admiration of other men to her 


120 


A HARD LESSON. 


if his was wanting? Did he, indeed, scorn and despise 
her so much? Had he guessed her unmaidenly secret? 
and did he feel a contemptuous dislike to the girl, who, 
not satisfied with robbing him of his birthright, had 
also shown to him too plainly the shameful weakness 
of her heart? 

Poor Helen tortured herself with these perplexing 
questions. But while she stood there nursing her 
wounded pride and her disappointed hopes, the object 
of her secret thoughts stood suddenly before her. 

“ Not dancing, Miss Dacre? What a piece of luck 
forme! Come and have a turn. ” 

Before she could frame an answer, Nugent had passed 
his arm round her waist and had borne her lightly out 
into the middle of the room. 

Gilbert was a perfect dancer, and the keen physical 
enjoyment of waltzing with him was, for the first few 
moments, all that Helen could think about. 

When they stopped at last, after three or four turns 
round the room, Helen exclaimed a little breathlessly — 

“That was indeed lovely. I have not had such a 
waltz the whole evening.” 

Her eyes were glowing, her face flushed. The pure 
joy of being with the man who had become, by some 
wonderful miracle, suddenly dear to her, lent a new 
tenderness and charm to her whole aspect. Nugent 
had never yet seen her like this. 

He gave a* swift glance round the room. Dora was 
nowhere to be seen. He had left her at the supper- 
table between two attentive youths, safely engaged 
with a plateful of galantine aux truffes . He had reck- 
oned, guilty man, that it would take her at least twenty 
minutes to get through that plate alone, to say nothing 
of the possibilities of jellies and grapes to follow. 


A HARD LESSON. 


121 


“ Do you know,” he said, looking* back at his partner, 
“ that the principal reason I have for dancing with you 
is that I may ask you a question?” 

“ What a formidable announcement ! it sounds alarm- 
ing.” 

“ It is not alarming at all, Miss Dacre. But my 
question is a serious one — to me at least.” 

Helen’s heart beat a little quickly. 

“ Don’t keep me in suspense then,” she laughed nerv- 
ously. “ Pray ask your question, Mr. Nugent.” 

“ Ah! but will you answer it?” 

“Certainly, if I can.” 

“You can certainly answer it — but will you? Will 
you answer it faithfully and truthfully?” 

“I don’t think I am untruthful,” said Helen, in a 
low voice. 

“ Forgive me. Promise me, then, that whatever your 
reply may be, it shall at least be a perfectly honest and 
true one?” 

Vaguely disturbed, she hardly knew why, Helen gave 
him the required promise. 

“ You will tell me the truth, then?” he repeated, as 
though unable to insist sufficiently often upon this point. 

“Yes, I will certainly tell you the truth,” she said 
once more. She had not the vaguest idea what his 
question was likely to be. 

“ I am going to tell you something first — something 
that I will put into a little parable,” he began. “ I do 
not ask you to say one word about that — only to listen 
to my foolish story, so that when you have heard it you 
may give me a plain answer, ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ to what I 
shall ask you afterward. Listen. There was a poor 
beggar who had not a penny in the world— luck had 
always been dead against him — and, in addition to his 


122 


A HARD LESSON. 


poverty, he was tied by the leg to a great heavy load 
of stone, which he had to drag about after him wherever 
he went. The stone had been only a very small one 
when, years ago, he himself had allowed it to be fast- 
ened on; but by degrees it had grown bigger and 
bigger, and the chains became heavier and stronger, so 
that he did not know how to get rid of it. One day he 
saw a chance of escape ; or, rather, he saw something 
which made him think that it might be worth his while to 
struggle for freedom. It was just a half-opened door — a 
door that led, I think, into heaven. It was impos- 
sible to drag his stone with him through that golden 
threshold. If he hoped ever to cross it he must first get 
rid of that hideous weight — he must do battle, and fight 
for his liberty. This is what he longed to do. But 
there came a warning voice — an evil voice, that mocked 
him — and the voice told him that he would be wasting his 
time, because the angel who guarded the door he longed 
to enter would only shut it in his face were he to present 
himself before the entrance ; so that he had better be 
wise in time, and go on dragging about his chains and 
his burden to the end of the chapter. That is my little 
story, Miss Dacre. What do you think about that poor 
fellow?” 

“ I think he would be a coward not to rid himself of 
such an incubus as you describe at whatever cost, not 
because of any angel, but for his own sake, and for the 
sake of his own manliness and honor.” * 

She spoke impetuously and hotly. The story did 
not seem to apply to herself, nor to anybody she knew. 
Nugent was looking at her intently and earnestly. He 
saw that she had not understood his meaning. 

“ Now for my question then. And pray remember 
to look upon it as the context of my parable. A few 


A HARD LESSON. 


I23 


days ago, Miss Dacre, a gentleman appears to have 
called upon you and left his card ” 

Every scrap of color left her face. 

“ It would, of course, be an impertinence on my part, 
were I to question you concerning your friends and your 
visitors. You were good enough to inform us that this 
gentleman is a nephew of the schoolmistress who 
brought you up. He is presumably, therefore, an old 
friend. ,, 

“ Yes,” she gasped, “you are right: an old friend.” 

“ Now, tell me the truth. Remember, you have 
promised me the truth. Is he not more than a friend?” 

A dead silence. Th@ meaning of the story he had 
told her flashed upon her fully. He himself was the 
man ; the weight of stone of whom he was tired was 
Dora, to whom he was engaged, and whom he longed 
to be rid of ; and the open door — the angel he longed 
to reach. Ah ! it was all clear as daylight to her now ! 
Gilbert Nugent loved her. 

In the tumult qf this wonderful discovery she could 
not utter a word. Her heart beat so wildly that 
instinctively she pressed her hand against the bodice of 
her dress. Her color went and came. A great and 
rapturous joy throbbed through every pulse of her being. 

A swift flash of her tell-tale eyes met his face and 
told her that he was watching her with an intense 
eagerness, waiting for her to speak. 

“ Is he more to you than friend?” he asked her once 
again. “ Yes or no. I want no more. ” ' 

She would have to answer him. A horrible faintness 
came over her. How was she to tell him the horrible 
truth? — how, in one word, to dash away the cup of 
happiness forever from her lips? He had asked her for 
truth ; but how was she to speak the truth which would 


124 


A HARD LESSON. 


plunge her forever into the dark hopelessness of an abso- 
lute despair? No; she could not do it! She would rid 
herself of Frederick Warne, of his hateful pretensions, of 
the hold which, in the days of her foolish ignorance, 
she had allowed him to gain over her. She would write 
to him — break off everything ; appeal to her guardian 
for protection against him, if necessary ; but she would 
not continue to be bound to so detestable an individual 
any longer. 

Gilbert Nugent loved her! For her sake he was 
ready to shake himself free of Mrs. Torrington and her 
claims upon him. For her sake, that is, if she were 
worthy of the sacrifice. Would he think her so if he 
knew that she was Frederick Warne’ s betrothed? Oh! 
she could not own to such a degradation. 

So the temptation was too much, and the lie — that 
lie whose consequences were to be so terrible to her — 
was spoken, never, alas ! to be recalled or retrieved. 

“No,” she said at length, slowly and deliberately. 

“ He is nothing to you?” 

“ Nothing,” she said once more. 

But she did not dare to look up or meet his eyes with 
that lie upon her lips. She heard the long-drawn 
breath of relief and exultation. 

He murmured — 

“Thank God!” followed after a brief pause by a 
question whispered in her ear — 

“ Then there is hope for me?” 

She only bent her head mutely in assent. And with- 
out another word he passed his arm round her waist 
and whirled her out into the middle of the room. 

In that delightful, never-to-be-forgotten waltz, was 
it indeed all Helen’s fancy that he held her more closely 
and tenderly than before — that his eyes flashed with an 


A HARD LESSON. 


125 


unwonted passion into hers — and that there was in the 
young man’s whole being an intensity of exultant ex- 
citement of which she could not understand the cause? 

And yet all the time — above the delirious throbbing 
of her own heart, above the siren ~ strains of the dance 
music — a voice deep down within her seemed to say — 

“ Enjoy yourself while you may, you poor fool ! — it 
will not last. It is but a stolen joy to which you have 
no right — a false and unreal happiness which an aveng- 
ing Nemesis will soon snatch away from you forever. ” 
Even the music ‘seemed after a while only to be an 
echo of the warning words ; so that, with every throb 
of the air, she seemed to hear, over and over again — 

“ It will not last — it will not last!” 

Nothing lasts. The waltz came, as a matter of 
course, to an end, and just as Nugent deposited his 
breathless partner upon a low couch at the end of the 
room he looked up and beheld Mrs. Torrington entering 
the door at the further side of it 

Her quick eyes saw him in a moment. There was a 
flash of anger, of disapproval, in them which Nugent, 
who knew every look in the face too well, was able to 
understand with perfect accuracy. A shadow came 
over his own face — all the brightness went out of it. 
He rose hastily, and offering his arm to Helen mur- 
mured something about finding Lady Camilla. 

“ I expect it is time to go — she will be looking for 
her party,” he explained, as they walked across the 
wide and now nearly empty ball-room. 

“ Everything, ” he added, with a little half-awkward 
laugh, “ everything, you know, comes to ail end.” 

“ Yes, everything comes to an end,” repeated Helen 
lifelessly, and, somehow, all at once the brightness and 
beauty about her seemed to become extinguished. 


126 


A HARD LESSON. 


Lady Camilla came forward to tell her she was going 
home. Lord Bainton tucked her hand under his arm 
to take her to the cloak-room. She submitted listlessly 
to be carried away. What did it matter? It was all 
over ! The ball, and the little success she had had — 
and everything else — it was over ! 

Five minutes later Gilbert Nugent was wrapping a 
large fur-lined plush mantle round Dora Torrington’s 
white shoulders. 

“You were quite wrong,” he whispered to her. 
“Miss Dacre is not, as you imagined, engaged to that 
young man of inferior aspect.” 

“ Is she not?” replied the widow, with a languid 
smile. “ I wonder why he writes to her then, twice a 
week!” 

Nugent presumably was left to wonder, too. 


CHAPTER XV. 


“At last!” exclaimed Mr. Frederick Warne aloud to 
himself, as he entered his shabby little sitting-room 
from the bedroom door beyond, and examined the 
letters that lay on the table by the side of the breakfast 
tray. 

His landlady had just brought in his morning repast. 
It did not look very tempting. On the battered black 
japanned tray, that was guiltless of the luxury of a 
table napkin, stood a metal teapot, a cup and saucer of 
coarse ware, a large slop basin filled with sugar, and a 
small milk jug containing a bluish fluid. Between 
two plates reposed a few slices of greasily-cooked bacon, 
while a flabby cottage loaf and a pat of pale and 
unwholesome-looking butter completed the arrange- 
ments. Mr. Warne, probably because he knew no 
better, did not seem dissatisfied with the fare. He sat 
down to the table, poured himself out a cup of bitter- 
flavored tea, and took a mouthful or two of the greasy 
bacon before turning once more to his letters ; and then 
with a gleam of evident satisfaction in his eyes he 
selected one from the rest and broke open the envelope. 

“ Time she did write,” he murmured, as he extracted 
the letter — a short one, apparently, for the outer sheet 
was blank. “ Three letters of mine and no answer. 
It is a most reprehensible habit of Helen’s — that of 
leaving her letters unanswered. However, doubtless 
she is now penitent,” and then he proceeded to read 
the epistle. 


127 


128 


A HARD LESSON. 


It was tpiite short, and not in the least what Mr. 
Warne expected. 

Dear Frederick: — I am writing to ask you to release 
me from my engagement to you. I find that I do not 
love you sufficiently to become your wife. I am sure you 
will agree with me that under these circumstances we 
should not be happy together. Pray write by return of 
post, and give me back my promisp, and also send back 
to me some letters of mine which you have. — Always 
your sincere friend, Helen Dacre. 

As Mr. Warne read this brief and explicit document, 
his jaw fell, and a look of consternation that was almost 
comic overspread his countenance. 

For some months past he had been dwelling with 
considerable satisfaction upon the fact that he was 
engaged to be married to a lady with thirty thousand 
pounds of her own. His new appointment was com- 
fortable enough. It might, perhaps, have satisfied his 
aspirations in the old days when he had looked for 
nothing better ; but new hopes and ambitions had lately 
arisen in the young man’s breast, and the Classical 
Professorship at the Girls’ High School, with the free 
lodging thrown in, no longer contented him. 

For what might he not do with thirty thousand 
pounds? He would found and build a school of his 
own — a school upon a particular pattern of his own 
fancy, which he had long had in his mind. The edu- 
cation should be cheap but sound. There should be 
resident pupils and day boarders. The latter might be 
expected to flock in in almost limitless numbers. He 
would have one wing of the building — that was to be 
erected with Helen’s money — devoted to classical stud- 
ies, the other to mathematics, modern languages, and 
science. There should be nothing frivolous taught. 


A HARD LESSON. 


129 


It should be a training school for earnest-minded young 
women of the middle classes. There must be thousands 
of such young women waiting and longing to be so 
trained. Nothing should be spared to make the pro- 
gramme attractive. The professors should be men of 
learning and distinction ; the lady principal, a woman 
of high attainment. There should be scholarships to 
Girton and Newnham, and certificates of first and second 
class merits. There should be a lecture hall, and a 
debating society. The prospectuses should set forth 
all this in glowing language, and with such a sum as 
thirty thousand pounds at his back the thing was bound 
to be a gigantic success, wihle he himself, as head and 
principal of the school, would reign supreme; and at 
the same time gather in the profits rapidly and satisfac- 
torily. These had been his dreams — no more, no less. 
To raise himself above the beaten path of educational 
work presented no attraction to him. His sluggish 
soul conceived no higher joy than to be the big man 
of his own establishment in his own accustomed line of 
life. To teach, to admonish, to lay down laws for 
everybody else, was the very breath of his being. He 
could not have existed without it; and thus his day 
dreams included no scheme for his own luxury or 
enjoyment. Only this practical and thoroughly prosaic 
ambition: to remain a schoolmaster -still, on a broader 
and more lucrative basis. 

In his own way he was fond of Helen ; but as to the 
part which she was to play in his future he troubled 
himself very little. It was her money which was so 
necessary to him. She would, of course, be a present- 
able and creditable wife, and her attitude of reverent 
and submissive adoration of her husband would be no 
doubt of infinite benefit to her and of much comfort to 
9 


i 3 o 


A HARD LESSON. 


himself. He dismissed her thus, very briefly, from 
his mind. What he could not dismiss, was the present 
difficulty which barred the way to the initial step of his 
future career, so that he was at the very outset powerless 
to advance. 

When he had read Helen’s note three or four times 
over he came to the conclusion that she was the victim 
of evil influences. Lord Bainton was evidently his 
enemy. The man’s insolence to himself had been 
marked. Why should he, Frederick Warne, a superior 
and learned man, in a responsible position of life, be 
treated with such contumely by an overbearing member 
of the aristocracy? 

“ Why, pray, am I not good enough for Helen Dacre?” 
he asked of himself aloud, with virtuous indignation. 
It seemed to him, indeed, that he was more than good 
enough. The advantages, bar that little matter of the 
money, were entirely on Helen’s side. She was young, 
unformed, girlish, and ignorant in many ways ; and he 
himself was a man of erudition and experience. If 
anything, the balance was all in her favor. A union 
with him, then, would be an inestimable advantage to 
her. She was, indeed, but little fitted to mate with a 
man so infinitely her superior in mental acquirements. 
Moreover — as to that money — who could say that his 
motives were mercenary? He had been willing to 
marry her when she had only forty pounds a year. 
Was it not fair and right that he should marry her now? 
Lord Bainton, in the days of her poverty, had taken no 
notice of her whatever. Who was he that he should 
come now between her and her betrothed husband? 

The more he thought about it, the more clear it 
became to him that he possessed an unalterable right 
to possess himself of that thirty thousand pounds, and 


A HARD LESSON. 


131 

to devote it forthwith to an excellent and admirable 
object. 

He rose when he had finished his breakfast, and went 
and stood at his window. It was a third-floor window 
and looked out on to the courtyard of the High School. 
Across the open space, in twos and threes — in groups 
and singly — the girl students were hurrying to take 
their places for the morning’s lecture. He himself 
was to give the lecture — a lecture upon Greek litera- 
ture. His subject was all prepared ; his notes lay ready 
on the table behind him. He looked forward to his 
task with pleasure and a certain sense of importance. 
He liked lecturing to girls. The sea of fair young 
faces reverently and silently turned up to his own pan- 
dered to his vanity and soothed his sense of unappreci- 
ated superiority. 

He told himself that he possessed the talent. Why 
then should he not have the money which would give 
him the power and the influence as well? 

It was his by right. Helen should not upset all these 
important schemes for his future for the mere perversity 
of a childish caprice ! 

It was a Wednesday — a half-holiday. When his 
morning duties were over, he was due at Aberdare 
House to teach Latin grammar to the big girls at his 
aunt’s school. He did not like teaching them nearly 
so well as the middle-class young ladies. These well- 
born damsels had a careless way of receiving his 
instructions which annoyed him. Sometimes he even 
fancied they turned him into ridicule ; and on one ter- 
rible occasion he had found upon the floor, after the 
class retired, a horrible pen-and-ink sketch which he 
feared — he very sadly feared — might be intended for 
his august self. 


132 


A HARD LESSON. 


It represented a very ugly man in a flowing beard 
and spectacles, with sundry other facial peculiarities 
that were not altogether unfamiliar to him, and beneath 
the portrait was written, “ Ugly Old Snuff -bags in his 
Gig-lamps.” 

Frederick, with a wisdom beyond his years, put the 
hateful caricature quickly into the fire and said nothing 
about it to anybody ; but it burnt in his memory very 
much longer than it burnt in the grate, and it added a 
certain acrimony to his lessons at Aberdare House ever 
after. 

When he got to Cleare’s Common to-day, contrary to 
his usual habit he went first into his aunt’s study in- 
stead of going at once to the class-room. 

Miss Fairbrother was dozing gently in her arm-chair. 
She dozed a great deal now — more than she used to 
do when the dark-eyed pupil teacher, whom she had 
brought up from a child, was living with her. The 
work of the school was in no way neglected, because 
she had competent teachers to look after the young 
ladies, but beyond overlooking a few examination 
papers and reading daily prayers and presiding at 
meals, she did very little herself now. 

When her nephew came in she roused herself and 
pretended that she was reading the book on the “ Chem- 
ical Action of Herbaceous Plants,” which, for precau- 
tion’s sake, she had laid upon her knee before she went 
to sleep. Miss Fairbrother always liked it to be sup- 
posed that she read works of an instructive nature when 
she was in the seclusion of her study, and, in case any 
of the governesses or girls came in unexpectedly, it was 
always as well to be provided with a volume of a seri- 
ous character. 

She clutched at the book when she heard the door 


A HARD LESSON. 


*33 


open behind her, but on perceiving her nephew laid it 
aside again and welcomed him with a smile. He sat 
himself down with a serious aspect by her side, and 
took Helen Dacre’s note out of his pocket. 

“ I have received this morning a letter, my dear aunt, 
which has annoyed me extremely, and which I must 
request you to read and give me your advice upon.” 

Miss Fairbrother took the letter from his hand and 
read it. 

“It is infamous!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “It 
is dishonorable, unwomanly! Can this be the girl I 
brought up so carefully and judiciously? Oh, my dear 
Frederick, she is unworthy of you.” 

“I greatly fear so, aunt,” replied Warne modestly. 
“ I greatly fear it. I would not indeed waste another 
thought upon this poor misguided child; but,” and here 
his eyes and Miss Fairbrother’ s suddenly met, “ there 
are other considerations.” 

The look of mutual comprehension lasted but a sec- 
ond; the “considerations” were not put into actual 
words. There would perhaps have been a lack of deli- 
cacy in doing so ; but it is quite certain that they un- 
derstood one another. Miss Fairbrother nodded her 
head several times. 

“Yes, yes,” she murmured, with a feeling sigh. 
“ My poor boy, you have your rights — your undoubted 
rights. ” 

“ It is exactly what I feel, my dear aunt. But how 
am I to enforce those rights?” There was a moment 
of silence. Miss Fairbrother suggested nothing, and 
presently Frederick spoke again. 

“ This poor child has been drawn into the vortex of 
the world. The pleasures and dissipations, of a frivo- 
lous society have turned her head, and enticed her away 


T 34 


A HARD LESSON. 


from those nobler aspirations of her girlhood implanted 
by your tuition. I feel that she ought to be rescued.” 

“Like a brand from the burning,” murmured Miss 
Fairbrother, nodding her head once more. But how 
the brand was to be rescued it was somewhat difficult 
to say. 

“You will, of course, not release her from her 
promises?” 

“ Of course not. ” 

“ Nor return her letters?” 

“ Decidedly not.” 

“ Is there — is there anything in any of them, my dear 
boy — that might — might ” 

“Yes,” very promptly, “I have a letter of hers in 
which she makes use of the words, ‘Our marriage,’ and 
goes on to say further, ‘when I am your wife.’ It was 
in the first week of our engagement. ” 

“Ah! that is good — decidedly good.” 

“ You are thinking of a breach of promise, aunt?” 

“ I think you might with advantage hold such a con- 
tingency over her,” admitted Miss Fairbrother. “Do 
not give her back her letters. ” 

“ I will not, aunt. I never intended to.” He rose to 
go to his work; but at this moment the neat parlor 
maid entered bearing the second post letters on a tray. 

Frederick had already reached the door when Miss 
Fairbrother called him back. 

There was a look of excitement on her face. Her 
hands, which held an open letter, trembled, and her old 
eyes shot quick glances at her nephew. She motioned 
to the parlor maid, who lingered to replenish the fire, 
to leave the room. 

As soon as she was alone with him, she cried breath- 
lessly: 


A HARD LESSON. 


*35 


“ Here is indeed the finger of Providence, Frederick ! 
Something wonderful — astonishing! You came tome 
for advice, and now this totally unexpected letter has 
been put into my hands in order that I may guide and 
advise you. Listen ! 

“‘Madam, — You have, I believe, a nephew named 
Mr. Frederick Warne. If he is in any way interested 
in the future of Miss Helen Dacre advise him to come 
at once to the neighborhood where she is now residing. 
If he does not enforce his claim I warn him that another 
will supplant him and carry away the prize that might 
easily be his. An Unknown Friend.’” 

Miss Fairbrother read this communication aloud from 
the first word to the last, and then a dead silence fell 
upon the two, and they looked at one another without a 
word. 

“ An anonymous letter!” murmured Warne, at length, 
below his breath, with rather a shocked air. Such a 
thing had never come across the respectable experiences 
of his life before. 

Miss Fairbrother turned the envelope over and over 
in a puzzled manner. 

“ What is the post-mark?” 

“It is a London post-mark,” she answered. “That 
tells one nothing.” 

“And you cannot make a guess at the handwriting?” 

The old lady shook her head. “You see it says a 
‘friend.’ It is meant well. In fact, as I said, it is 
providential. You must act upon it, Frederick.” 

“You think so, aunt?” He was a little doubtful. A 
lingering of good taste and good feeling seemed to 
knock at the portals of that small and shrunken recep- 
tacle where he kept his conscience, and to warn him 
against that snake-like letter 


i3 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ I have heard — I have been told that it is better not 
to notice anonymous communications — that they should 
be burnt,” he said doubtfully. 

“ Don’t be a fool, Frederick,” replied his aunt tartly, 
as she folded up the missive and put it safely away in 
her reticule. “ I am not going to burn the letter, and 
you are going down to Meadowshire to-morrow. You’ll 
lose that money if you don’t, as sure as I sit here.” 

This argument was bound to prevail. 

“Who can ‘Another’ mean?” was Frederick’s only 
rejoinder. 

“ Go and see. But it is probably the Earl of Bainton 
himself.” 

Frederick uplifted his hands and eyes in holy horror. 
“ The pharisaical old reprobate !” he exclaimed. “ What 
wickedness there is in the world!” and then he went his 
way to teach Valpy’s Latin Exercises to the young 
ladies in the next room. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


L'Unio?i fait la force , says the French proverb, and 
call it by what name you will — combination, coalition, 
or collaboration — there is not a doubt of it that two 
heads are better than one, and that a partnership in any 
cause, either good or bad, is the best way to work to 
make that cause succeed. 

This idea had suggested itself very strongly to Mrs. 
Torrington on the morning after the Hunt ball. It was 
not the least use in the world, she reflected, for her to 
make an enemy of Lady Camilla. A quarrel with her 
cousin and hostess would not help her in the very least, 
and would, in point of fact, be extremely unpleasant in 
its consequences, for a great deal of the pleasure and 
profit of her existence accrued to her from her periodi- 
cal and long visits to Old Park. She had no desire 
whatever to quarrel with her bread-and-butter. 

So she determined to join forces with Lady Camilla 
in order to fight the common enemy together. 

Helen Dacre must be got rid of. She could not, it is 
true, be poisoned or shut up in a dungeon, or done 
away with in any of the mediaeval methods common to 
melodrama ; but she might not impossibly be sent back 
with disgrace to that humble position of life out of 
which she had been so unfortunately lifted, and there 
left to languish in well-merited obscurity. 

Mrs. Torrington remembered the young man with 
the horrible hat and boots, and the unexplained mys- 
• 137 


A HARD LESSON. 


138 

tery that had surrounded his appearance, and went and 
knocked at Lady Camilla’s door. 

The conference lasted for some time. 

Dora explained to her cousin satisfactorily that the 
same object actuated them both — namely, the total ob- 
literation of Helen Dacre from the scene of her present 
evil doings. 

“ I don’t want her to marry Gilbert Nugent, and you 
don’t want her to marry your brother,” she said. 

“ If she doesn’t marry the one it seems to me that she 
must marry the other,” answered her ladyship de- 
spondingly. 

“ Not at all, my dear Camilla, not at all. There is a 
third alternative open to her — she can marry somebody 
else.” 

“ Somebody else ! And where are we to find that 
somebody else, pray? Two lovers are certainly enough 
for the girl. Where are we to find a third?” 

“ He is found already.” 

“ You don’t mean it — really? How do you know?” 

“I found him,” replied Dora, with the calm assur- 
ance of a secure position. And then she proceeded to 
tell Lady Camilla all about the inferior-looking young 
man in the ill-made clothes whom she herself had en- 
countered at the door, and how Helen had turned pale 
and red at the sight of the card which he had left for 
her — although she had stated that he was nothing but 
the nephew of her old schoolmistress.” 

“ But it is my conviction,” she added sapiently, “that 
she is engaged, if not actually married to the creature ; 
for I am almost certain that he writes to her frequently. 
She looks so guilty about it, too. Well, then, of course, 
Gilbert must needs take a lively interest in the 
matter.” 


A HARD LESSON. 


139 


“Ah! He is in love with her, as I told you before,” 
Lady Camilla could not help saying. 

“Nothing of the sort!” replied the widow with as- 
perity. “ It is Bainton who is in love with her. Gil- 
bert only wants her money. ” 

“Well — we wont quarrel about it, my dear — go on.” 

And the little passage of arms being over, Dora pro- 
ceeded with her tale. 

“ Gilbert — like the silly fool he is — spoke to me about 
it, asked me if I thought Helen Dacre was engaged to 
be married to some one she had known in her former 
life. Not satisfied with what I told him, it appears 
that he asked her himself at the ball last night, and he 
informed me quite triumphantly that there was no truth 
in it, and that she had denied all connection with the 
man. It’s my belief she told him a lie, and that is 
what I mean to ‘find out. Will you help me, Camilla?” 

“ I don’t see how we are to discover.” 

“Don’t you? Well, I think I do. Listen to me.” 
And then the ladies fell into conversation of so earnest 
and private a nature that it is scarcely possible to fol- 
low the thread of it in all its windings. Pens and ink 
were brought into requisition after a time, and a great 
deal of whispering and consulting went on over the 
writing-table, besides the wholesale destruction of a 
great many sheets of Lady Camilla’s best writing- 
paper. 

To make a long story short, the result of the confab- 
ulation was the anonymous letter. 

It was by Lady Camilla’s advice that this precious 
document was addressed to Miss Fairbrother, and not 
to her nephew. To begin with, there was a security 
about the old lady’s direction, which was well known 
to her old pupil; whereas the dwelling-place of her 


140 


A HARD LESSON. 


nephew — if, indeed, he was her nephew — seemed to be 
shrouded in vague uncertainty. If there was no 
nephew no harm would be done, if the nephew existed 
he would be quite certain to see the letter. 

The caligraphy was undertaken entirely by Mrs. 
Torrington. She had a pretty little talent for feigning 
divers styles of handwriting, and she exercised it with 
great dexterity on the present occasion. It was, in fact, 
quite impossible to guess from the internal evidence of 
it whether the letter was written by a man or by a wo- 
man. When it was finished off to the satisfaction of 
both the fair conspirators it was sent under cover to an 
intimate friend of Dora Torrington’ s who lived in Lon- 
don, with a request that it might be dropped into the 
nearest pillar-box at the earliest opportunity. 

After which the two ladies kissed each other with 
great effusion, and the new alliance was cemented by 
many words of endearment and affection on either side. 

Meanwhile, all unconscious of the web which her en- 
emies were weaving for her discomfiture, Helen Dacre, 
mounted on Sunflower, was riding slowly homeward 
through the winding lanes. She had somehow missed 
the hounds to-day and had got thrown out of the run- 
ning, and so being a little tired with her last night’s 
ball, and a little more inclined, perhaps, for dreaming 
than practice she had decided upon riding home by 
herself. 

The girl was quite happy. A little smile hovered 
upon her lips, and a sort of warm glow — the reflex of 
something soft and tender at her heart — shone in the 
depths of her dark and speaking eyes. She knew of no 
reason why she should not be happy. The world she 
had come to live in was very fair to her. She seemed 
to possess everything that it could give her — pleasure. 


A HARD LESSON. 


141 

luxury, and kind friends ; and now, last, best gift of all, 
love itself was hers ! Wherever she turned smiles and 
flattering words met her. Everybody was kind to her. 
She knew, of course, that it was her money that had 
done all this ; but, then, there was no bitterness in that 
knowledge, for oh! what a lovely world of affection 
and sympathy had that magical golden key not opened 
to her ! 

The little barricade which, in her girlish foolishness, 
she had built up against the man she loved was all 
broken down now. How glad she was that this was so ! 
Whatever she had felt of rage and anger against him at 
the first she knew quite well now must have all melted 
away into love and pity in that hour when he had laid 
helpless and unconscious stretched upon the sodden 
earth at her feet. From that hour, no doubt, pride had 
died, and love had sprung up into life in its stead. And 
now, although she recognized perfectly that there lay a 
whole wilderness of doubts and fears and difficulties be- 
tween her and him, yet across that gulf he had reached 
out his longing hands to her, and it seemed to her that 
in time all would be overcome, all perils vanish away, 
and he and she, whose hearts had cried out in the dark- 
ness to one another, be made one at last in the triumph 
of full and cloudless sunshine. 

It was the happy dream of a young girl. She 
asked herself neither the ways nor the means. All that 
should be left to him. She would be patient; she 
would trust in him and wait for him. She had done 
her part quickly and promptly. She had employed her 
first waking moments in writing a few brief lines to 
that other man whom she could not even think of with- 
out shame and . contrition. She had done all she could 
to undo the lie she had spoken last night. The lie had 


142 


A HARD LESSON. 


become the truth, and she was nothing now to Frede- 
rick Warne — nothing. That lie already lay on her con- 
science no longer. The only thing that troubled her 
was Dora Torrington — Dora who believed in him who 
had bound herself to him. But for the certain and in- 
stinctive knowledge that Mrs. Torrington was unworthy 
of him, Helen would have been miserable to think that 
Nugent had been false to the little widow for her sake; 
even as it was she was vaguely uneasy. 

But she consoled herself by reflecting that no doubt 
it was a one-sided affair, and that Dora was an unde- 
sirable wife for such a one as Gilbert Nugent. Still he 
must have loved her once. Alas ! that love should fade 
and alter and die. • It seemed to her very sad ; but 
perhaps it was unavoidable. Lady Camilla had told 
her that men were changeable, and he had let her see 
how irksome was his position with regard to Dora, 
and had appealed to her — Helen Dacre — to free him 
from it. 

A woman forgives much to a man if only he loves 
her. His love to herself excused him in her eyes for 
his perfidy to another. For a man’s falseness or fickle- 
ness is never wholly odious to the woman for whose 
sake he is false or fickle. 

As she rode slowly along, full of happy fancies and 
of sweet, intangible dreams of all that the future might 
bring to her, a horseman came into view far away along 
the narrow lane behind her. No sooner had he caught 
sight of her well-groomed chestnut horse and his grace- 
ful rider than, putting his own horse into a sharp trot, 
he came up quickly and overtook her. 

She turned round at the sound of the advancing 
steps, and waved her hand gayly as she recognized her 
guardian. 


A HARD LESSON. 


143 


“ Riding homeward, my dear Helen? How is this?” 
he exclaimed, as he reached her side. 

‘ r 1 lost the hounds somehow. I was on the wrong 
side of the covert when the fox broke, and somehow I 
went the wrong way, and could not catch them up,” ex- 
claimed Helen. 

“ You want some one to take care of you in the hunt- 
ing field; you have not enough experience to be so 
independent. Why did you not follow me?” 

“I miss Ted horribly,” she answered, ignoring his 
last question, at which she smiled internally, for Lord 
Bainton, although he had been a fine horseman in his 
day, had grown fat and heavy, and his cautious career 
across country through gaps and gates, and by cir- 
cuitous courses along the roads, would not at all have 
commended itself to the adventurous spirit of his young 
ward. 

“ Oh, Ted is a scatterbrain young monkey ! You want 
somebody steadier than Ted to look after you.” 

Helen made no answer for some minutes. They 
rode along in silence together between the wet and 
straggling hedgerows that glittered in the winter sun 
on either side. 

“Your rashness makes me very anxious,” said the 
earl presently. “You are foolhardy, my dear, because 
you are ignorant of the dangers you run. ” 

“ I will be more careful, dear Lord Bainton.” 

There was another pause ; then Bainton said, rather 
suddenly — 

“ I am going away this afternoon. I am obliged to 
be in London. There is a lawsuit concerning one of 
my tenants, in which I am mixed up. I must leave you 
here, of course, with my sister, as we arranged. But 
before I go I want to say something to you.” 


144 


A HARD LESSON. 


“Yes?” she said, with but a languid interest. No 
doubt he wished to enjoin more prudence upon her. 

“You need not give me an answer at all — in fact, I 
don’t want an answer now. * I had rather you took your 
time and thought it over.” 

She perceived with surprise that he spoke with ner- 
vousness — Was it something about her money? Had she 
been extravagant? 

“ I wish, ” he blurted out, “ I wish you to be my wife. ” 

“Oh — Lord Bainton!” * 

“ Pray say nothing — I do not require an answer. Any 
time within six months you can tell me — Don’t speak 
now — good-by,” and he pressed his heels into his 
horse,, who bounded forward at a brisk canter, and in 
three minutes he had disappeared round a turn of the 
road 


CHAPTER XVII. 


If a thunderbolt had rent the skies and fallen at her 
feet, Helen could not have been more astounded, or 
indeed more horrified, than by Lord Bainton’s extra- 
ordinary and totally unexpected words. 

For the first few seconds she felt positively stunned ; 
but after a minute or two she began to realize her po- 
sition, and it overwhelmed her with the bitterness of a 
great and terrible disappointment. 

She had learnt to love Bainton as a father. To the 
orphan girl, whose recollection of her own parents was 
no more than a dim memory of a distant childhood, the 
tender and protecting care of this kind and polished 
elderly gentleman had been unspeakably precious. It 
had seemed to her that he had been expressly sent in the 
time of her sorest need and loneliness to take the place 
of her own dead father, and to supply all those sweet 
ties of family and home from which she had been for 
ever shut out. Her gratitude to him was unbounded ; 
her reverence and respect without limit ; and her love 
for him was of a sweet and filial nature, such as a 
daughter would have experienced. Now all these 
happy delusions were shattered at a single blow. The 
charming peace and security of her relations with him 
were utterly destroyed, and all the confidence and trust 
she had placed in him rudely and cruelly shaken. 

It was a moral shock to her. 

A sense of disgust with him, with herself, with life 
itself, overpowered her. The almost sacred nature of 

145 


10 


146 


A HARD LESSON. 


the affection she had entertained for him, and which 
she had believed him to return toward her, seemed all 
at once to be degraded and vulgarized. She had looked 
up to him as a child, and he, a man old enough to have 
been in truth her grandfather, desired to marry her. 
The bare thought of such a union — of his sixty years 
against her twenty — of this veritable May and Decem- 
ber — filled her with unspeakable loathing and repulsion. 
She almost hated him. It was worse — oh, a million 
times worse — even than Frederick Warne! 

When she found herself at a later hour sitting op- 
posite to him at the luncheon table she could not bear 
to speak to him or even to meet his eyes. A sense of 
shame and disgrace seemed to oppress her — shame for 
him that he should have fallen from the pedestal upon 
which she had placed him, and disgrace to herself that 
she should be the object of aspirations so unworthy of 
him. 

Her confusion and embarrassment were, however, in 
no way shared by her guardian. He chatted and talked 
with his usual spirits, without in any way seeming to 
notice his ward’s averted looks and constrained manner. 

The three ladies were his only companions at the 
lunch table. Mr. Greyson and Nugent, more fortunate 
or more persevering than Helen, had kept up with the 
hounds, and were now enjoying an excellent run across 
a fine bit of country after a second fox that had been 
started later in the day. 

The brougham had been ordered at three o’clock to 
take the earl to the station, where his friends had un- 
dertaken that his luggage should meet him. When he 
had finished a somewhat hasty lunch he excused him- 
self to his sister, and rose abruptly from the table. 

“ I must go and see about the gun-case I left here, 


A HARD LESSON. 


147 


Camilla, ” he remarked, as he left the dining-room; 
“and there was a cartridge-case and a whip of mine 
too, somewhere.” The door closed behind him, and in- 
stantly and without a word Helen rose from her place 
and followed him out of the room. Lady Camilla and 
Dora remained staring speechlessly at one another. 

“Good gracious!” ejaculated the widow. Lady Ca- 
milla was white with anger and fear. 

“ Bold, brazen girl !” she ejaculated. “ What does she 
do that for? Oh, Dora, you don’t think; do you, that 
we are too late, and that she has already got hold of 
him? What shall I do? Shall I follow her?” 

“ Not for the world. Sit still ; pretend not to notice 
her. If she is engaged to him we can do nothing yet. 
We must wait till he has gone away. Don’t awaken 
his suspicions by seeming to watch him. ” 

“It is terrible!” gasped Lady Camilla. “My poor 
deluded brother!” 

“Deluded fiddlesticks!” ejaculated Mrs. Torrington 
irreverently. “ Bainton is old enough to take care of 
himself.” 

“And you advise me, then, to sit by and see this 
iniquity perpetrated?” cried her cousin excitedly. 

“ I advise you nothing of the sort, my dear. Take 
my word for it, your brother has not committed himself 
yet. Old men are cautious ; they do not rush into mat- 
rimonial engagements in a hurry. They have to weigh 
all the pros and cons first, to see if it will be to their ad- 
vantage or disadvantage to take a wife. You may de- 
pend upon it that Bainton will have to consult his 
lawyer, his physician, possibly even his cook, before 
making up his mind that it will be desirable and com- 
patible to himself to change his manner of life. There 
is plenty of time.” 


148 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Then, why has she rushed out in that impetuous 
way?” 

“ Because girls never understand how to manage a 
man. They either chill him with too much reserve or 
bore him with too much effusion. Our young friend 
rushes, apparently, from one extreme to the other.” 

Meanwhile Lord Bainton and Helen were standing 
face to face outside in the hall. 

“ My dear, I don’t want you to say anything at all,” 
the earl was repeating with gentle insistence. 

“ I must speak. I cannot let you go without speak- 
ing. I must tell you that what you have said to me is 
impossible.” 

Bainton shrugged his shoulders slightly. 

“ Nothing is impossible, my dear child.” 

“Yes, yes,” she persisted breathlessly, “this thing 
is quite, quite impossible. Oh! why — why did you 
spoil everything by saying it?” She wrung her hands 
together, and there were tears in her eyes as she turned 
her head away from him. 

“Pray do not distress yourself, Helen,” he said 
kindly, taking her hand into his. “You are surprised 
and a little upset, I dare say, now. It has been rather 
sudden for you, my dear child; but believe me, you 
will get accustomed to the idea very soon. Only don’t 
let it trouble you. You see there is no hurry at all. 
Now promise me just to put it out of your mind for the 
present.” 

“ I cannot ! I cannot ! It is right to you that I should 
tell you at once that I can never be your wife. ” 

“No; you must tell me nothing of the sort. You 
have not yet thought it over, and I do not want any 
answer from you for a long time. ‘Never’ is a long 
day, my dear child, and we can, none of us, foretell 


A HARD LESSON. 


149 


how soon circumstances may effect a change in our 
wishes.” 

Afterward Helen had cause to remember those 
words of Lord Bainton’s. They were destined to come 
back to her mind almost with the force of a prophecy. 
Just now she was too much distressed and upset to pay 
much attention to them. She only did what a woman 
often does when she is hard driven and perplexed — she 
burst into tears. 

Her guardian laid his hand with a fatherly tender- 
ness upon her shoulder. 

“ My dear little girl, do not be unhappy. Believe 
me, I only desire to do everything in the world to please 
you. I am very fond of you, Helen, and I think that 
the safest solution of the problems and difficulties . of 
your position will be to do as I have suggested. But I 
do not wish you to be worried or troubled. I only ask 
you to think it over — that commits you to nothing at 
all, you know. Only, remember that I shall not change, 
and that at any moment I shall be as I am now — en- 
tirely and wholly at your feet and at your service. ” 

The men servants were coming into the hall from the 
back premises with the earl’s gun-case and a bundle of 
rugs, the brougham was at the door, — there was no 
further opportunity for private conversation, even if at 
that moment the two ladies had not entered from the 
dining-room. Helen was still brushing away her tears, 
and Lady Camilla threw a quick glance of keen suspicion 
at her. 

“ Crying!” she thought angrily. “Now, I wonder 
what on earth that is for? I’ve no patience with the 
girl’s sly ways. And my brother, who is always such a 
fool about a woman’s tears!” 

Five minutes later the good-bys had been spoken 


A HARD LESSON. 


I 5° 

and Lord Bainton was gone, and Helen, as she watched 
the brougham disappear down the avenue, and turned 
away wearily from the window, could not help thinking 
that, in spite of the madness and folly of his desiring to 
become her husband, he was perhaps her best and truest 
friend, and that his presence afforded her a strength 
and protection which in his absence she sorely needed. 

The events of the next few days acted one upon the 
other with a singular coherence. Circumstances, partly 
accidental and partly preconcerted, played upon each 
other with an extraordinary fatality. 

After Lord Bainton’ s departure to London, the next 
thing which happened at Old Park was of so trivial a 
nature as to appear entirely unimportant, and yet it was 
by no means so. 

When the gentlemen came back from hunting, late 
in the afternoon, Nugent asked his hostess’s permission 
to absent himself for two days from her house. He 
had received an invitation from some friends at the 
further side of the county. There was to be a big 
shoot, a wholesale slaughter of pheasants, and, as an 
undeniable shot, Nugent’s gun was much in demand on 
these occasions. “ I shall not be back till after dinner 
on the day after to-morrow,” he explained, “and the 
next day, Lady Camilla, I fear that I must bring my 
delightful visit to you to a close.” 

Mrs. Torrington turned a quick glance upon him at 
these words, whilst Helen, who was again unravelling 
some mistakes in Lady Camilla’s “ poor- work,” bent her 
head more completely over her task. 

“ Are you certain that you are strong enough to leave 
us yet, Gilbert?” inquired Lady Camilla kindly. 

“Yes; I am perfectly well again now, thanks to your 
kind care; and I have two engagements in Yorkshire 


A HARD LESSON. 


151 

which I had put off, but which I must now go and 
fulfil.” 

Dora rose to go to the piano, making a signal to him 
to follow her. 

“ How can you be so unkind as to go away?” she mur- 
mured to him reproachfully, whilst he was arranging 
her music for her upon the desk. 

“ My dear girl,” he began awkwardly, “ I really must 
sometimes go and see some of my friends.” 

“ Where are you going? Can I not get invited to the 
houses you are to stay in?” 

“ I am going first to the Delastairs,” he said, not with- 
out a shade of malice ; for Mrs. Delastair was one of 
those exceedingly particular leaders of society who draw 
the line at lively widows who make themselves conspic- 
uous by their flirtations. Mrs. Delastair, moreover, 
had distinctly declined the honor of Mrs. Torrington’s 
acquaintance, and Mrs. Torrington was aware of it. 

She made a movement of impatience and annoyance. 
“ That horrid woman ! How can you go and stay in her 
house when you know how rude she has been to me?” 

“ Delastair has the best pheasant shooting in York- 
shire.” 

“ How like a man that is! I believe you would 
swallow any insult for the sake of a day’s good shooting. ” 

“ I hope not. Neither Delastair nor his wife have 
insulted me; and don’t you think, my dear Dora, that 
it would be somewhat compromising to you if I were to 
constitute myself the champion of your quarrels?” 

“You are selfish and cruel!” she retorted angrily. 

“ Do sing ‘The Falling Leaves, ’ ” selecting a song from 
the pile of music on the piano. “ It suits your voice so 
well.” He opened it, and propped it up against the 
music desk, ignoring entirely her accusation 


A HARD LESSON. 


* 5 2 

Dora was flattered. Gilbert in the old days of his 
early passion had been fond of her singing, and had often 
hnng entranced by the hour together over her piano ; but 
of late years he had seemed to take very little interest 
in her vocal performances. Perhaps her voice was less 
true and sweet than of yore — or perhaps it was because 
the singer was less attractive to him — that her songs 
failed to please or soothe him. When he asked her now 
to sing she was mollified. It was like old times, and 
surely, surely, it showed that she had not altogether 
lost her power over him. She shot a swift smile up at 
his handsome face and began to sing. 

But the heart of man is said to be deceitful above all 
things, and certainly never was its duplicity more 
clearly instanced than on this occasion. 

The piano was a cottage one, and naturally it stood 
against the wall, so that the singer’s back was turned 
toward the room. 

Dora’s little piping voice was soon well under way 
in the somewhat melancholy refrain of the song, which 
repeated its inanities with an irritating iteration : 

The leaves are falling, falling. 

And my heart is breaking, 

Whilst a voice is calling, calling, 

And my soul is waking; 

Whilst the leaves are falling, falling, falling. 

They were falling incessantly, and whilst the dirge- 
like ditty spun itself out a little serio-comedy was 
enacted behind the singer’s unconscious back. 

Under cover of some heavy bass chords which accom- 
panied the fall of those leaves and the fracture of that 
depressed heart, Nugent stole softly back across the 
thick velvet pile carpet to the slender figure seated at 
the table in the centre of the room. Lady Camilla 


A HARD LESSON. 


*53 


noted the retrograde movement from her corner, and 
with an internal chuckle kept her eyes discreetly fixed 
upon her newspaper. 

“I may as well see nothing,” she thought. “ Dora 
would play me false in a minute if it suited her, and if 
her plan of salvation fails I may as well have another 
iron in the fire!” 

Nugent bent low over the back of Helen’s chair. “ I 
must speak to you,” he whispered in her ear. She 
lifted her head with a startled expression, and a wave 
of color flooded her face. His head was within a few 
inches of her own — his eyes, passion laden, poured 
their love and longing into hers — it was impossible to 
mistake his meaning. Her eyelids fell and she trem- 
bled slightly. 

“ I have to start early to-morrow morning — at eight 
o’clock. Will you see me before I start?” 

“ Yes.” 

♦ 

“ At half-past seven in the library?” 

Again her lips framed a voiceless “Yes,” and in an- 
other second he was back again at the cottage piano 
murmuring a faint “Brava, brava!” as the last of the 
falling leaves fell definitely away into the final cadences 
of Dora Torrington’s song. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A love tryst at half-past seven o’clock on a cold Jan- 
uary morning, in a fireless room, does not hold out to 
the minds of sane and sober persons any elements of a 
purely romantic nature ; but to the follies of lovers there 
is no end, and in order to secure the bliss of an unin- 
terrupted tete-a-tete there is no discomfort and no incon- 
venience on the face of the earth to which they will not 
cheerfully and eagerly submit. 

It was, therefore, with praiseworthy punctuality that 
at half-past seven o’clock on the following morning Nu- 
gent and Helen Dacre found themselves together in the 
large and empty library. 

The fire was as yet unlighted, the grate being still 
filled with yesterday’s ashes; the chairs were pushed 
out of their places, books and newspapers lay in disorder 
about the tables — in fact, it was evident that the house- 
maid had not yet entered the room on her morning 
rounds. 

Nugent, who was the first to appear, himself opened 
the shutters and threw back the heavy window curtains, 
so that the pale light of a frosty morning crept cheer- 
lessly and dimly into the room from the glazed veranda 
without. Helen came in timidly. She was very pale, 
and seemed nervous and frightened. Gilbert went for- 
ward eagerly to meet her. 

“ How good of you to get up! How can I thank you 
enough!” he murmured, as he grasped her hand. 

“ Please be quick,” she whispered, looking round ner- 
i54 


A HARD LESSON. 1 55 

vously. “ I am afraid some one may find us here — the 
servants. ” 

“ Never mind the servants. If they come in it can’t 
be helped. Helen, don’t you know — cannot you guess — 
what I have to say to you?” 

Her color rose, and her head dropped. He took 
the sweet, shy face between both his hands and lifted 
it up. 

“Darling, I love you!” he whispered. “I love you 
with all my soul. I want you for my own when I have 
freed myself — when I have shaken off this intolerable 
yoke that is my shame and disgrace. Will you forgive 
me, my unworthy past, and be my wife?” 

He drew her close to his heart, so that her head lay 
against his breast. She made neither answer nor resist- 
ance — but the gentle pressure of her yielding form, as 
she leant upon him, told him without any need of words 
that her heart was his own. 

“I wanted to tell you this before I went away,” he 
continued — “ to explain to you how impossible it is for 
me to continue in this house and in the false position I 
hold here any longer. I have accepted this invitation 
to-day solely that I may not remain here any longer. 
I could not, unfortunately, go to Yorkshire until the day 
after to-morrow. I must return here to-morrow night ; 
but I shall only be here for that one night, and leave 
again on the following morning. It is very unlikely 
that I can have a word with you ; but when I am in 
Yorkshire I am going to write to her and put an end to 
this horrible slavery. It will be easier for me to write 
than to speak — and then after a few weeks, dearest, I 
will go to London and lay my case before your guardian 
and plead for the dear hand that I covet for my own. 
Meanwhile, will you trust in me?” 


156 . A HARD LESSON. 

He bent and kissed her forehead gently and reverently 
with infinite worship and tenderness. 

“Yon are so good and so true,” he whispered, “so 
immeasurably too good for such a man as I am.” 

“ Oh, don’t say that, ” she found voice to answer, “You 
don’t know — indeed — indeed — I am not too good.” 

“ Ah ! you must allow me to be the judge of that,” he 
said, with a smile. “ I have not a shadow of doubt of 
you. You are truth itself; you could not be false or 
deceitful ; those beautiful eyes of yours never looked an 
untrue look; and these sweet lips are incapable of 
uttering a lie.” 

She trembled and shrank in his arms — a deathly pal- 
lor chased her blushes away — she hid her face from his 
gaze upon his arm. Why, oh, why, did he strike her to 
the heart with those terrible words of praise? 

The lie that she had spoken to him stood out in letters 
of flame before her. For one wild moment she strove to 
find her voice to speak, to confess the truth to him, to 
tell him that she had deceived him. If he had only 
seen her agitation, and questioned her. But he saw 
nothing, and her voice failed, and her parched lips re- 
fused to utter the words which should debase her forever 
in his eyes. . 

And then swiftly she told herself with that sophistry 
with which we all make excuses for our mean and bad 
actions, that, after all, the lie was a lie no longer; that 
she had made amends for it, and that by this very morn- 
ing’s post she expected the letter which was to set her 
free from the hateful error of her past. What need was 
there, then, that she should confess to him that closed 
chapter of her girlish mistake? 

She could tell him nothing. Only as in a dream she 
heard him repeat over and over again his unbounded 


A HARD LESSON. 


r 57 


belief in her, and his faith in the saving influence which 
was to renovate and purify his whole life. She heard 
him call her his guardian angel, sweet saint of the blame- 
less heart — his true love who was to crown his life with 
joy and gladness. 

Once or twice she tried feebly and vainly to stem 
the flow of these undeserved encomiums ; but her faint 
denials only seemed to him to be the outcome of her 
modesty and humility, and he scarcely listened to them, 
or heard the low and trembling words. 

After all, too, the time was very short. A bell in the 
hall rang for his early breakfast, warning him that he 
had not another moment to spare ; and a footstep alojig 
the passage outside caused Helen to start away guiltily 
from his arms, and to fly like a frightened deer through 
the window and out along the veranda to the morning- 
room beyond. 

They had not been more than ten minutes together. 
How would it have been possible to compress into so 
short a space the story of her folly and her weakness, 
and of the miserable cowardice which had driven her 
into telling him a lie. 

After he had gone she tried to console herself with 
these reflections, and she told herself ‘positively that it 
was absolutely impossible that she could have done it. 

“I will tell him afterward” she said to herself; 
“ some day when his love has strengthened, and he has 
learned to understand me better. I will tell him when 
he is my husband. ” 

The first little shock that happened to her after he was 
gone was that there was no letter from Frederick Warne. 

Nothing at all came by post for her. It gave her a 
vague sense of uneasiness that he had not written. 
Surely her letter was of a kind which required an 


A HARD LESSON. 


158 

answer by return. She had expected her release, and 
her own few letters to be returned to her — instead of 
which there was nothing ! 

What added still more to the feeling of impending 
trouble which began to oppress her was the fact that 
she could not help perceiving, lying uppermost on Lady 
Camilla’s little pile of letters, a bluish envelope on 
which were traced the once well-known fine copperplate 
characters of old Miss Fairbrother’s handwriting. 

When Lady Camilla came down and took her place 
behind the teacups, she shuffled all her letters together 
so that that especial one no longer was visible, and 
then she proceeded to wish Helen and Mrs. Torrington 
“ Good morning,” and to pour out their tea. 

Of course, Helen argued to herself, there was no 
earthly reason why Miss Fairbrother should not write 
to her old pupil — probably she often did so. Neither 
had vshe the faintest reason to connect her letter with 
her own anxiety at getting no answer from the old 
lady’s nephew. 

Nevertheless, she could not shake off the impression 
that in some way or other the two incidents were con- 
nected with each other and with her. 

After breakfast Mr. Greyson started off in the dogcart 
to the country town, and Lady Camilla asked Dora to 
come into her boudoir, and the two ladies vanished up- 
stairs together. 

Helen hung about the hall doing nothing. 

There was no hunting to-day. The glass was rising, 
and there was every indication that the slight frost of 
the early morning meant increasing and lasting. The 
book-box had gone back to Mudie’s and was not ex- 
pected to return till the next day. There was nothing 
to read but the newspapers ; and at tw 7 enty the leading 


A HARD LESSON. 


I c;g 

articles in the Times do not hold out a very tempting 
prospect to a woman’s soul. 

She found a stray number of an old magazine, and 
sat down listlessly before the wide fireplace with it in 
her hand. The tall clock ticked solemnly and soberly 
behind her; Ted’s old liver-colored spaniel snored 
comfortably on the hearth-rug ; every now and then a 
distant door upstairs shut or closed, and nothing else 
happened at all for the space of a whole hour. 

Helen was only pretending to read. Her eyes strayed 
frequently into the fire, and her thoughts were busy 
recalling every word and look of her lover’s in that 
short interview of the early morning. 

She was very happy, of course — what woman is not 
as she remembers the fond words and fonder caresses 
in which the man she cares for has told her of his love? 
And yet she was all the time desperately uncomfortable. 

She wished she had never told him an untruth ; she 
wished she had found courage to confess her faults to 
him ; and she wished more than all else that Frederick 
had written to her. 

But as all these were vain wishes they did not at all 
succeed in dispelling any of her uneasiness of mind. 

All at once Dora Torrington came running downstairs 
from the boudoir overhead. 

“ I’ve got such a brilliant idea, Helen!” she cried out 
to her excitedly. “We have nothing on earth to do 
to-day, have we?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ It’s horribly dull ; not a man in the house ; even old 
Tom away; and I’ve got a lovely idea.” 

“ What is it?” 

“ Well, I want to run up to town to choose a new din- 
ner dress. I wanted Camilla to go with me, but she 


i6o 


A HARD LESSON. 


says she feels a cold in her head coming on, and had 
rather not. Will you come with me, Helen?” 

“I?” Helen said, with surprise; “but is there time 
now?” 

“Lots. I don’t mean to come back till to-morrow 
morning; we can stop at the Midland Hotel. I’ll tele- 
graph for rooms, and we can go and see some play. 
There is that new thing at the Haymarket. We will 
telegraph for stalls and go and see it. Do say ‘yes,’ 
Helen — it will be quite a little jaunt for us. ” 

“I should of course have to take my maid,” said 
Helen a little dubiously. This “new departure” puz- 
zled her. Mrs. Torrington was not often so genial and 
so bent upon securing her society. 

“ Oh, certainly, if you don’t mind the expense of it. 
Of course I am a pauper to have to think about the 
shillings.” 

“Will you let me have the pleasure of being your 
hostess, Mrs. Torrington, for our little trip?” said 
Helen, with a sudden flush. “ The hotel bill and the 
stalls shall be my affair. I never know how to spend 
all the money I have got.” 

“ You are very kind, my dear. Well — since you wish 
it — and as you say you have plenty of money — I cer- 
tainly have none. Well, it’s settled, then, and we will 
go by the three o’clock train. I must run and send off 
the telegrams. It is very good of you, Helen — you really 
are a dear girl!” and she gave her a kiss. It was a 
Judas-kiss, if Helen had only known it. “And you 
must not call me Mrs. Torrington. You must call me 
Dora. ” 

Helen assented with a faint smile as she submitted to 
the kiss, and the little widow ran away to write and 
send off the telegrams. 


A HARD LESSON. 


161 


Helen went slowly upstairs to give the necessary 
orders to her maid. She was thoughtful. She could 
not quite understand the meaning of this sudden 
resolution. 

“ Perhaps, after all,” she thought, “she has no mean- 
ing save the very simple one of wanting to enjoy her- 
self and go to a theatre. And, after all, if I can give 
her pleasure by going with her, why should I not? 
Poor woman ; I have taken away her lover from her. 
If she only knew how bitterly remorseful I feel about 
that ! It makes me glad enough to do any little thing 
to please her!” 

By the afternoon the two ladies, accompanied by 
Helen’s French maid Celestine, were on their way to 
London. 

ii 


CHAPTER XIX. 


The letter which Lady Camilla had received from 
her old governess seemed to play most delightfully and 
unexpectedly into the hands of the two conspirators. 
Miss Fairbrother had written to ask if Lady Camilla 
would kindly grant an interview to her dear nephew — 
her poor sister Jane’s son — if he presented himself at 
the door on the following morning. 

“The poor fellow,” wrote the old lady, “is very un- 
happy about Helen. Dacre, to whom he is sincerely at- 
tached, and who promised long ago to become his wife ; 
but he sadly fears that in her change of fortune and life 
of pleasure her heart has become of late somewhat es- 
tranged to him, and he hopes to enlist your sympathy, 
my dearest Lady Camilla, in his case, which is, indeed, 
for a lover, a very sad one. ” There was more of it — 
pages more — but the upshot of it all was the same thing : 
that Frederick Warne was coming to the house the next 
day, and that he desired to see Lady Camilla alone when 
he did come. 

“ If only we could get her out of the way to-morrow!” 
Lady Camilla had exclaimed, after they had talked the 
situation over together for some time. 

“ What on earth is there to prevent it? I will take 
her up to London,” cried Dora. 

“ To London, Dora ! Good gracious ! On what pre- 
text?” 

“ Oh, anything will do — my dressmaker — the natural 
desire of a ‘lark,’ common to all women. I’ll ask her 

162 


A HARD LESSON. 


I 6 


to go up with me — we will go to a play — stay at an 
hotel — flatten our noses at the shop windows in Bond 
Street to-morrow morning — enjoy ourselves vastly, and 
return by the afternoon train in time for dinner.” 

“ Dora, you are a perfect genius!” exclaimed her ally, 
with admiration. 

And the wily widow actually managed to make her 
victim offer to defray the expenses of the expedition 
proves indubitably what a genius she most decidedly 
was! 

Meanwhile Lady Camilla, who was no fool either, 
was left at Old Park to perform her part of the affair in 
their absence. Her tactics were rendered all the easier 
because her worthy husband had announced to her his 
intention, if the frost lasted, of starting off by the night 
train to Rugby in order to attend a sale of valuable 
hunters, out of which he hoped to add one or two well 
known animals to his stud. The frost did last, and Mr. 
Greyson went away. Lady Camilla therefore had Old 
Park all to herself. 

The answer which she sent to Miss Fairbrother, and 
which contained a gracious and hospitable message to 
that forlorn and down-hearted lover, her nephew, was 
soon, like everybody else, on its way to London. 

The anonymous letter — to which naturally no allusion 
was made by either lady — had certainly borne ample 
fruit already. Lady Camilla spent a whole evening, 
not at all unhappily, by herself. In her oldest and most 
comfortable tea gown, with easy slippers on her feet 
and her spectacles on her nose, she sat in her favorite 
arm-chair in the cosy chimney corner, and buried her- 
self in her novel. It was a very interesting novel, full 
of stirring situations and of pathetic episodes. There 
was no end to the misfortunes which the unhappy and 


164 


A HARD LESSON. 


beautiful heroine of the tale was made to undergo ; and 
presently Lady Camilla’s handkerchief came out of her 
pocket and she wept copiously and heart-brokenly over 
the sorrows of the unlucky damsel of fiction. When she 
finished the book and got up to go to her bedroom, she 
surveyed her flushed face, with her swollen eyes and red 
nose, in the glass with a critical interest. 

“ Dear me ! I am glad I have been alone to finish 
that delightful book!” she said aloud to herself; “ it has 
made me cry so dreadfully I really am quite an object. 
It is a mercy there is nobody here to see me. I can’t 
think,” she continued, as she put out the lamp and 
went slowly up the staircase to her bedroom, “what 
makes me always cry so much when I read a touching 
story. I suppose it is because I am so tender-hearted. 

I never can bear to think of a sweet girl being op- 
pressed, and bullied, and parted from the man she 
loves, like that poor Euphrosine!” Euphrosine being 
the name of the heroine over whose woes she had been 
weeping. 

And then she sighed and smiled together as she re- 
flected that she really had a very warm and loving na- 1 
ture, and that it was exceedingly to her credit that she* 
was able to display so much sympathy with virtue in 
distress. 

But though Lady Camilla said her prayers that night 
as all good Christian women should do, and got into her 
warm bed with a serene and tranquil conscience, it 
never occurred to her in the very least that she had no 
womanly compassion at all for the unlucky girl whom 
chance had temporarily consigned to her care, and 
whom she was even now plotting against without any 
remorse or compunction. If anybody had accused her 
of such a thing it is certain that she would have had no 


A HARD LESSON. 


i6 5 

tears to shed for Helen D acre’s difficulties, and she 
would probably have been exceedingly surprised that 
the natural 'instincts of self-protection implanted in the 
breast of a mother should be so cruelly misunderstood 
and misinterpreted. 

The morning dawned ; and Lady Camilla, installing 
herself after breakfast in her cosy boudoir, issued orders 
that she was at home only to a gentleman whom she ex- 
pected on business. 

In due time a fly, of that rickety and shabby descrip- 
tion which the one vehicle appertaining to a country 
wayside station usually presents, came crawling slowly 
up the long avenue — she could watch its approach from 
the window of her room — and drew up before the door 
of the house. 

A few minutes later Mr. Frederick Warne was ush- 
ered into her boudoir. 

Well, Lady Camilla was certainly taken somewhat 
aback by his appearance. He was so shabby, so un- 
gainly and unkempt, so utterly different to the young 
men of the world in which her life had been spent, that 
a swift pang of compunction did shqot through her heart 
at the thought that it was to this underbred and unat- 
tractive person that she was prepared to hand over her 
brother’s charming ward, with her sensitive face and 
her little air of refinement and distinction. 

“ It is most unchristian of me to feel it,” she said to 
herself, with a virtuous reaction a moment after. “ For 
no doubt he is an excellent man, and will make her an 
admirable husband. But what boots ! And what clothes ! 
And I wonder if he ever puts on a clean shirt!” 

She welcomed her guest, however, with much cor- 
diality, requested him to be seated, and mentioned 
the name of her dear governess, his aunt, as am intro- 


1 66 


A HARD LESSON. 


duction. She thought she would set him at his ease, 
but she little knew Frederick Warne. He was quite as 
much at his ease in the luxurious boudoir of this great 
lady, with its pictures and china, and rich draperies — 
with the scent of the hot-house flowers and all the sub- 
tle influences that surround a delicately nurtured wo- 
man — as if he had been in his old aunt’s bare little 
study, or facing his girl-students’ admiring glances as 
they sat in rows on their hard wooden school-benches. 

Nothing abashed Mr. Warne — he had far too good an 
opinion of himself. He was not at all the forlorn and 
desponding lover which Miss Fairbrother had intimated 
him to be. He was a man who had come to claim his 
rights and to proclaim them loudly, to begin with. 

So, as soon as he had replied to Lady Camilla’s in- 
quiries after his aunt’s rheumatism, he dashed boldly 
into the matter which was in his mind. 

“I understand, Lady Camilla, that Miss Dacre is at 
present an inmate of your house?” 

“ At this very moment she is away, Mr. Warne. She 
has gone to town with my cousin ; but I expect them 
back to-night. ” 

“ She is under your charge, at all events?” 

“ Certainly. My brother, Lord Bainton, is, as per- 
haps you know, her guardian, and for the present he has 
entrusted her to me. ” 

“ Your brother, Lady Camilla, is scheming to rob me 
of Miss Dacre’s affections,” continued Warne, with a 
sort of menacing “ deny-it-if-you-dare ” air. 

Lady Camilla colored and drew herself up with 
offence. This plain speaking upon such a very delicate 
subject was not ‘at all to her liking. 

“ Sin! I do not understand your meaning, ” she said, 
very coldly, and with that glance of haughty displeas- 


A HARD LESSON. 




ure before which her inferiors had often been known to 
tremble. Mr\ Warne did not tremble at all. He 
looked at her fixedly through his spectacles, and went 
on with his argument. 

“ Then I will proceed to make my meaning clear to 
your ladyship. I was engaged to be married to Miss 
Dacre while she was a pupil-teacher in my aunt’s 
school. She accepted me two years ago of her own free 
will. She was poor, she was homeless, but it suited me 
to ask her to become my wife, and she promised to do 
so. At that time Lord Bainton, who was as much her 
guardian then as he is now, took no notice of her what- 
ever. He did not care, in fact, whether she was alive 
or dead. Now, mark what happens: Somebody leaves 
a large fortune to Miss Dacre. Immediately the Earl 
of Bainton wakes up and remembers his duties to his 
ward ; he appears on the scene, tempts her away from 
the safe home where her girlhood has been spent ; car- 
ries her away with him in spite of my protests — in 
spite, too, of my claims with which I acquainted him 
instantly, and which he affected to treat as of no con- 
sequence at all. What am I to suppose, Lady Camilla, 
save that Lord Bainton is determined to rob me of my 
bride?” 

“ You have a grievance, Mr. Warne. You certainly 
have a grievance; but you must remember that my 
brother has certain duties toward Miss Dacre.” 

“ Duties which he omitted entirely until she had be- 
come an heiress,” interrupted the injured schoolmaster 
somewhat rudely. 

Lady Camilla bit her lip. She had some difficulty in 
keeping her temper. She intended to use this man as 
her tool — but what a rough and dirty tool he was, to be 
sure ! 


1 68 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Let us talk this matter calmly and dispassionately 
over, Mr. Warne,” she said, after a pause. 

“ Certainly, certainly. I want to talk it over. I 
want to know whether you will help me to gain posses- 
sion of what is my own, or whether you are going to 
help Lord Bainton in his scheme of spoliation?’* 

“ Mr. Warne, I think you are making use of the most 
unwarrantable expressions. I can do nothing for you 
if you forget the respect due to myself and to the Earl 
of Bainton.” 

“ Madam — my lady, I should Say — I am not afraid of 
any man because he is a lord. Thank heaven, my po- 
litical views have taught me that the aristocracy are a 
depraved and degenerate race.” 

“ Sir, what have your political views on the aristoc- 
racy got to do with your love affairs?” cried Lady 
Camilla, with real and irrepressible anger. 

Mr. Warne saw that he had better change his tac- 
tics. 

“ I stand rebuked — your ladyship is right — and I will 
not allude to this subject again. What I want is Helen 
Dacre — I have a right to her. ” 

“You have, undoubtedly, Mr. Warne. I am willing 
to allow your right ; but I must disabuse your mind at 
once of the strange idea which seems to possess you. 
Miss Dacre has a little money, certainly; but Lord 
Bainton is rich, and does not want money — and, more- 
over, Miss Dacre would be totally unfitted to become 
his wife. She does not belong to the Earl of Bainton’s 
station in life, and a man of his ancient name does not 
marry beneath him.” This she added proudly and 
haughtily, little as she knew it to be true. 

“Yet I have seen a letter — a mysterious and incom- 
prehensible letter — which contained a distinct warning 


A HARD LESSON. 169 

that Miss Dacre would soon, if I did not stand up for 
my rights, be stolen from me.” 

“ I know nothing about your mysterious letters, Mr. 
Warne,” said Lady Camilla hastily; “they have noth- 
ing to do with me. I may, however, suggest that Miss 
Dacre is not ill-looking, and she is rich. There may 
be other fortune-hunters in the field.” 

She looked at him with "meaning. But Frederick 
Warne was quite unconscious of the implication. He 
did not consider himself a fortune-liunter at all — only a 
deserving and superior person who had just claims to 
what he sought. 

“Others? Then, indeed, I have been wise to come 
here. Poor Helen has no stability of character. I have 
long feared that vanity and love of pleasure would turn 
her head. Your ladyship must surely agree with me 
that to become the wife of a man of sobriety and of learn- 
ing — who is able to guide and direct her — to control the 
natural frivolity of her disposition, and to strengthen 
and improve her mental faculties, is quite the best and 
happiest fate that can befall her.” 

“ I agree with you, Mr. Warne. It will be quite the 
best thing for her — and for us all!” she added mentally. 

“You are prepared to help me, then?” 

“ Certainly; but what can I do? My brother ” 

“Your brother is not at present in charge of Miss 
Dacre. If you are on my side, much can be done in his 
absence.” Lady Camilla was quite aware of this — in 
point of fact, it was the basis of her own operations. 

“ If you will give me my chance,” continued Warne, 
“ I shall be able, I think, to persuade Miss Dacre to re- 
turn to the path of duty. I have a letter of hers — two 
in fact — written some time ago, which completely prove 
my claim upon her. Produced in a court of justice, 


1 70 


A HARD LESSON. 


they would certainly establish my right to large and 
substantial damages. ” 

“ You would threaten her, in fact, with an action for 
breach of promise?” inquired Lady Camilla, with lifted 
eyebrows. Truly this young man was a valuable ally ! 

“That is my intention,” assented the schoolmaster 
blandly. 

“Well, I will give you your ‘chance,’ as you call it, 
Mr. Warne. I do not suppose that either Miss Dacre 
or Lord Bainton will care to risk a public scandal, so 
perhaps you will be able to win your cause ; but what 
do you wish me to do in the matter? Now can I be of 
any service to you?” 

“Very simply. If your ladyship will kindly ring 
the bell and desire your servants to prepare a room for 
me, they can, at the same time, pay and send away the 
fly and take my Gladstone bag out of it — ” 

“Your bag!” gasped Lady Camilla; “you brought 
your bag?” 

“ Certainly I did. I felt sure you would invite me to 
remain the night here.” 

“Mr. Warne, you are a veritable Machiavelli !” said 
Lady Cam ilia. She rang the bell and gave the necessary 
orders; and Mr. Frederick Warne became a fixture. 

“Good Lord, what a cad!” exclaimed Lady Camilla, 
when her unwelcome visitor had at length removed him- 
self out of her boudoir. “ What an insolent, impudent, 
outrageous cad ! But he is a genius, for all that, and 
if he rids us of Helen Dacre, it’s cheaply bought at the 
price. I thank heaven my Tom isn’t coming back till 
to-morrow. What on earth would he have said if he 
had come back and found such a dreadful creature in the 
house?” 


CHAPTER XX. 


“I have a delightful surprise for you, Helen!” were 
almost Lady Camilla’s first words to the girl on her re- 
turn from London. 

A few whispered words had been exchanged between 
her ladyship and Mrs. Torrington, and then the latter 
had run upstairs, for the train had been late, and it was 
time to dress for dinner; but Helen was unfastening 
her wraps in the hall, and Lady Camilla kept her back 
for one minute to say this to her. 

The girl looked animated and happy. The little trip 
had done her good. She had enjoyed the shops and the 
gay streets, and, above all, the excellent play at the 
Haymarket theatre, which had been a real delight to 
her; and besides all this deep down in her heart the con- 
sciousness of Nugent’s love — the remembrance of his 
words to her — and the knowledge that in a few hours 
she would see his face again kept up a perpetual chorus 
of secret strains of joy within her. 

Now, with the fatuity of all those who love, when 
Lady Camilla smiled and kissed her and spoke of a 
“ surprise” for her, her glad thoughts flew at once to the 
man she loved, and she said to herself, “ He is here ! 
He has come back sooner than he intended — and he 
has told everything to Lady Camilla!” 

The color rushed in a guilty flame to her cheeks, as 
she answered, consciously — 

“A surprise, Lady Camilla! What can it be?” 


A HARD LESSON. 


172 

Her hostess tapped her cheeks playfully. “Ah, I 
am not going to tell you! You shall see when dinner 
time comes. Oh, you sly puss, to hide your secret so 
cleverly from me! But I have found it all out now.” 

Naturally Helen blushed more guiltily than ever. 

“Oh, Lady Camilla! And you are not angry about 
it, then?” 

“Angry, my dearest girl? Why, I am enchanted! 
I do so delight in a story of true love, especially when 
it is love under difficulties — there, there!” kissing her 
again, fondly and clingingly. “ Run upstairs and dress, 
my love, and put on your prettiest and most becoming 
dress ; for who can tell who you may not find here when 
you come downstairs again?” 

Helen obeyed her to the letter. There was a pale 
blue dress of hers, of soft and shimmery texture, which 
Gilbert’s eyes had once rested upon with admiration, 
and in which he had told her one evening in a passing 
whisper that she looked “sweet.” 

It was this dress which she now took out of her ward- 
robe and desired her maid to dress her in. 

A row of pearls round her white neck, a tiny diamond 
fly — her guardian’s Christmas present — in her dark hair, 
and the effect was complete. The soft blue draperies 
set off her graceful figure to perfection, and there was 
a glow of excitement upon her face and a light of hap- 
piness in her large dark eyes, which gave the lustre of 
genuine beauty to her whole aspect. 

“You look char monte , mademoiselle ,” said her maid, as 
her young mistress surveyed herself in the long glass 
before leaving the room ; and* Helen smiled and felt 
glad to think that the girl’s words were no flattery, and 
that for to-night, at least, it was true. 

“I look my best, Ido think,” she said to herself. 


A HARD LESSON. 


*73 


“ And he will see me. If only his eyes look approval 
I want no other praise !” _ 

She came downstairs into the hall, where it was the 
custom to assemble before dinner. She was the first ; 
she had made good speed with her toilette, in the hopes 
that Gilbert, too, might be early, and that an opportunity 
for a few words with him might be hers. But he did 
not appear; and presently Lady Camilla’s voice became 
audible upon the wide landing above. She was talking 
to somebody. Helen could hear what she was saying. 

“Yes; our travellers have come back. The train 
was late — our trains on this branch line are terribly un- 
punctual. They had a cold journey, they tell me; but 
Helen, for one, is none the worse for it. Ah ! here she 
is herself.” 

Helen looked up. Lady Camilla’s portly figure in 
her brocaded green satin gown was coming down the 
staircase, filling up the foreground with its ample pro- 
portions ; and behind her, in the gloom, she could see a 
man in evening dress. Her heart stood still — it was 
not Nugent! Who then was it? 

The soft radiance of the rose-shaded lamps below first 
illumined Lady Camilla and then her companion, as 
they descended one after the other. 

Helen fell back ; her hand grasped the back of a 
chair to steady herself. She asked herself for one wild 
moment if she were awake, or if this was some horrible 
nightmare. In the next instant Lady Camilla’s laugh- 
ing voice was saying to her — 

“ Here, my dear child, is an unexpected pleasure for 
you! Mr. Warne has come to pay us a little visit! I 
told you I had a surprise for you ! Is she not looking 
well, Mr. Warne?” 

And Helen found herself shaking hands mechanically 


1 74 


A HARD LESSON. 


with the man whom she believed she had rid herself 
of forever. 

Mrs. Torrington came running downstairs. The 
butler threw open the dining-room door, and announced 
dinner. Lady Camilla passed her arm in a friendly 
fashion through that of her guest. 

“ Come along, Mr. Warner’ she cried. “ I am sorry 
that it is your fate to take an old woman like me in to 
dinner. My dears, we have no other gentleman to- 
night, so you must take care of one another.” 

Helen and Dora Torrington stood for a moment facing 
each other. 

“ Did you know of this?” asked Helen breathlessly, 
with that straight, level look of hers which Dora always 
said “ gave her the creeps. ” 

“ Of this? Of what? Of the advent upon the scene 
of your admirer? My dear, how could I possibly know 
of it? Have I not been in London with you?” 

“Why is he here? Why has Lady Camilla invited 
him to stay in the house?” cried Helen passionately. 

“ My dear child, how can I tell? Come, don’t be tragi- 
cal ! he must go in to dinner ; the soup will get cold, 
and I am ravenously hungry!” She passed her arm 
through Helen’s, and drew her toward the dining-room 
door. “ After all there is nothing to be upset about. 
The poor man evidently adores you. I thought so, you 
know, when he called here once before and spoke to me. 
It is always flattering to a woman to be worshipped, 
and this is an old-standing attachment evidently.” 

“ I must speak to that man alone directly after dinner, ” 
said Helen quickly — almost feverishly. “ It is abso- 
lutely necessary that I should do so. Dora, will you 
help me?” 

“ Certainly, my dear. No doubt the poor man him- 


A HARD LESSON. 1 75 

self will be only too charmed to have a private interview 
with you!” 

They had reached the dining-room ; there was nothing 
more to be said. Helen sat down in gloomy silence. 
A wild rage was in her heart, and reflected itself visibly 
upon her angry face. How dare he — she said to her- 
self — how dare he come here and persecute her with 
his presence and force himself as a guest into the house 
after she had told him that she would not marry him, 
and that her engagement with him must come to an 
end! 

And then her heart stood still with another fear. 
Gilbert Nugent would be back to-night! At what hour 
would he arrive? When would he come? 

With all her heart she trusted that he would be very 
late. He was to stay to dinner with hfs friends; it was, 
therefore, hardly possible that he could be at Old Park 
before eleven o’clock. It was a good ten-mile drive, 
and the night was dark. 

By that time she would have spoken her mind to this 
detestable lover of her youth, and have shut herself up 
in her own room. She would not be able to see Nugent 
to-night now; and Frederick, in common decency, 
might be expected to leave the house by the earliest 
train in the morning. 

All might yet be saved! 

She did not yet know that these two women, who 
were smiling, and talking and amusing themselves by 
drawing poor Frederick Warne out only to laugh at him 
secretly for his pomposity and his self-conceit, held in 
reality the keys of the situation between them, and had 
determined upon her ruin. 

The dinner, which was to her a perfect purgatory, 
came to an end at length, and Lady Camilla, requesting 


176 


A HARD LESSON. 


Frederick to stay and smoke if he liked, rose from the 
table. 

“ I never smoke !” He said it with a virtuous frigidity. 

“ Oh, very well, then — come into the drawing-room 
with us; though I always think a man should find some 
inducement to keep out of the drawing-room for half an 
hour after dinner. Will you go into the billiard-room, 
or will you drink some more claret?” 

“I neither play billiards nor drink, Lady Camilla,” 
said Warne sternly. “ What I wish to do is to speak 
privately to Miss Dacre.” 

“ Oh ! by all means. ” 

“ And I, Lady Camilla, wish to speak to Mr. Warne,” 
said Helen, with a heightened color. 

“ Far be it from me to part two such fond lovers for 
an instant longer !” exclaimed Lady Camilla, with a smile 
whilst Dora laughed — that cruel mocking little laugh 
of hers. 

“ Go into the library, you poor turtle doves !” she cried, 
pushing them both along the passage playfully. “ There 
are lights, and a fire, and all sorts of comfortable 
armchairs there. You will be able to enjoy yourselves 
thoroughly. ” 

“ Dora, how can you?” cried Helen indignantly. 

“ Mrs. Torrington scarcely apprehends the gravity of 
the situation,” said Warne coldly; “and to apply the 
expression ‘turtle dove’ to a person in my position in 
the world is scarcely — scarcely — ” 

“Scarcely proper! I dare say you mean,” laughed 
Dora. “ Oh, dear me, Mr. Warne, you really will be the 
death of me! You are too, too, utterly funny!” 

But as nobody else seemed to see the fun of it, Dora 
had the laugh all to herself. 

Poor Helen would rather have gone through her 


A HARD LESSON. 


177 


interview anywhere but in the library. That room was 
sacred to her from a tete-a-tete of a totally different 
character. But as apparently everything had been pre- 
pared for her there (it only occurred to her long after- 
ward to wonder why), she acquiesced meekly in the 
arrangement. 

Lady Camilla and her cousin went into the drawing- 
room together, whilst, with a horrible feeling of dread 
and repulsion, she led the vray into the library — Fred- 
erick following her jauntily, as a man does when he 
feels he has got his enemy under his thumb. 

Dora Torringtoh could settle to nothing. She could 
not sit still for one single minute. Her excitement was 
intense. She went from the clock on the mantelpiece 
backward and forward to the windows a dozen times. 

“ Oh ! I wish he would come ! I wish he would come !" 
she kept on saying. 

“ My dear, do keep still — you fidget me dreadfully. 
I tell you Gilbert must be here almost immediately.” 

She drew a letter she had received from Nugent that 
morning out of her pocket, and referred to it. “He 
says he will not wait for dinner there ; but will ask for 
a sandwich when he gets back from shooting and start 
off at once, as he wants to get back here quickly. ‘I 
shall be with you by nine, ’ he says.” 

“ It is five minutes past nine now!” 

“Well, and here he is!” cried Lady Camilla; “for I 
hear the sound of wheels coming up the avenue!” 

Dora flew out into the hall. Gilbert Nugent came in 
out of the darkness wrapped in a heavy fur coat. He 
saw Dora’s light figure running forward toward him 
across the fire-lit hall, and Lady Camilla’s face framed 
in the doorway of the drawing-room beyond. He threw 


12 


178 


A HARD LESSON. 


a rapid glance round as he entered — but no one else 
was there. 

“Come in and get warm,” cried Dora to him gayly. 
“ Have you had a good shoot? Have you enjoyed 
yourself? Come in, come in; we have such lots to tell 
you!” 

He laid aside his coat and went into the drawing- 
room. 

Again he looked eagerly round, but Helen Dacre was 
nowhere to be seen. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


“But I don’t understand, Dora!” 

“Nevermind. You are not required to understand; 
I only want you to come with me, as I tell you.” 

Nugent looked puzzled, and a little bit uneasy. He 
was standing upon the hearthrug before the drawing- 
room fire — he had not yet sat down. 

Dora stood dragging at him by the hands. Lady 
Camilla was laughing a little to herself. 

“ Don’t ask questions; just come with me. I have 
something to show you.” 

“What is it? Why can’t you let me alone? I am 
cold. Do let me wait and warm myself. What silly 
joke have you got in your head now, Dora?” And then 
again he looked round the room. Where on earth was 
Helen? Why did she not come? She must know he 
had come back. 

“ Where is Miss Dacre?” he asked suddenly. “ She 
is not ill, I hope?” 

“Oh! dear no; she is all right. I don’t know where 
she is — but do come, Gilbert.” 

“ I can’t think why you cannot leave a fellow in peace 
when he is cold and tired,” he grumbled. Her childish 
eagerness amazed him. He was thinking about Helen. 
He had hurried home with as much haste as he could, 
in the hopes of getting a few words with her, and now 
she was nowhere to be seen ! 

“ What on earth do you want me to do?” he asked 
impatiently. 


179 


i8o 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Only just to come with me. There is really some- 
thing most amusing that I want you to see ; you will 
laugh so much.” 

Nugent felt no inclination for laughter. The broad- 
est farce, the most extravagant comic situation, could 
scarcely, at that moment, have drawn a smile from him ; 
he was far too anxious, too much in earnest, and too 
much in love. 

However, for peace sake, he saw that he had better 
give in to Mrs. Torrington’s request; and very unwill- 
ingly, and somewhat ill-humoredly, he allowed himself 
to be led out of the room. As he went through the 
door he heard again Lady Camilla’s little laugh, in 
which there was a tone of triumph as well as of amuse- 
ment. 

Now it must be explained that along one side of Old 
Park house — the side into which opened the morning- 
room and also the library windows — there ran a long, 
covered veranda, glazed in at the sides and comfortably 
roofed over above. This veranda was in winter time 
heated with hot air, and being thickly carpeted and 
furnished with comfortable couches and chairs, besides 
being decorated along the outer side with plants, was 
a somewhat favorite resort, in bad weather, of the oc- 
cupants of the house. One window of the morning- 
room — a window that was in fact a door — opened into 
it, and two of the French windows at the side of the 
library. 

When Dora got outside the drawing-room, she seized 
Gilbert’s long red neck-scarf from the hall table, where 
he had thrown it aside on entering, and playfully in- 
sisted on blindfolding him. Little as he was in the 
mood for such a foolish pleasantry, Nugent reflected 
that “ in for a penny, in for a pound,” and that he might 


A HARD LESSON. 


iSl 

as well not waste more time in objections, but submit 
with the best grace that he could to her caprices. 

Dora therefore bound the scarf tightly over his eyes, 
and led him away captive. 

She took him into the morning-room and out into the 
veranda, until she reached the first of the windows that 
looked into the library. It was quite dark in the ver- 
anda — so that to persons within the room any one 
outside would be quite invisible. Drawing forward a 
chair she pushed him down into it. 

“Now,” she said, “you are to count fifty, and then 
you are to take off your bandage, and you shall see — what 
you shall seel” 

.“What infernal nonsense this is!” he muttered; but 
still he obeyed her because he fancied that it was some 
game — some tableaux vivants , perhaps; some feminine 
entertainment which the three ladies, left all day to 
their own devices, had amused themselves by organizing 
for his benefit. 

Dora crept away on tiptoe. He heard the soft rustle 
of her receding skirts. Then a moment of silence. 
Next a clicking sound, curiously like the turning of a 
key in a door; then, oddly enough, the murmuring 
sound of voices in front of him — two voices, a man’s 
and a woman’s — which answered one another. 

With a horrible premonition of evil he tore the scarf 
suddenly from his eyes. The window before which he 
sat was ajar, Dora had put it so purposely before she 
had gone in to dinner. The curtains were drawn back. 
He could both see' and hear the occupants of the library. 
With a smothered exclamation he stepped away from 
the window, and went hurriedly back to the door of the 
morning-room. It was locked from the other side, and 
Dora Torrington had vanished ! 


I 8 2 


A HARD LESSON. 


Save through the library there was no way of escape 
from the trap into which she had led him. 

Drawn back by an irresistible force, he retraced his 
steps and stood before the library window. He saw 
Helen — Helen, who only two mornings ago in that self- 
same room had leant against his heart, and had listened 
yielding and consenting to his confession of love! — 
Helen, who now stood there alone with another man — a 
perfect stranger to him! He could not see her face, 
because her back was turned to the windows ; but the 
expression of the man’s face, despite its vulgarity and 
ungainliness, was quite unmistakable — it was the face 
of a man who speaks to the woman he covets for his 
own. 

Honor no doubt should have bid Gilbert Nugent throw 
wide open the half-closed windows and disclose at once 
to the couple within that they were no longer alone ; 
but there is something in a man’s breast which, when it 
is once thoroughly aroused, is stronger even than his 
honor, and that something is jealousy. 

It is perhaps one of the most hideous of all human 
passions, and, at the same time, it is one of the strongest. 
A man who is jealous is no longer master of himself. 
He loses his self-control, and does and says things which 
would be impossible to him in his saner mood. 

For the moment, then, this demon of jealousy took 
possession of Gilbert Nugent. 

She was false, then — this girl upon whose truth and 
faith he would have staked his existence ! 

What other interpretation could be put upon her pres- 
ence here — alone in the evening with this man — in a 
room away from the others? Or was there not by some 
wonderful chance some other meaning to that which his 
eyes and his senses revealed to him? What had this 


A HARD LESSON. 1 83 

man to do with her? Who was he? Ah! at all costs 
he must know ! The truth, at any price ! 

He pushed the window yet a little more widely open, 
and Helen’s words as he did so sounded clearly in his 
ears — 

“ You had no right to come here — no right to perse- 
cute me!” 

Then, at any rate, she did not love him ! Perhaps, 
then, all was well — he was only some unwelcome suitor 
pressing his unwished-for attentions upon her. 

But the man’s words in answer sent this theory tum- 
bling to pieces. 

“I have every right,” said Frederick Warne stoutly, 
“ and I intend to force my right. I have your written 
words — letters which you yourself have sent me.” 

“ Ah! for pity’s sake give me back those letters!” 

“ Certainly not! They are my property. I value 
them. They are precious to me. They contain prom- 
ises which I do not intend to allow you to break with 
impunity.” 

“ You are capable, then, of threatening me?” 

“ I am capable of everything, Helen, in order to make 
you return to your duty. Your head has been turned 
by wealth and prosperity. ” 

“ No, no ! you do not understand me. ” 

“ Do not interrupt me,” said the schoolmaster, in his 
most dictatorial manner. “Your moral nature has 
become sadly debased since you have cast in your lot 
with frivolous worldlings, with sycophants who only 
flatter you for your money. You have forgotten those 
who cared for you, and who sheltered you from evil 
when you were poor and friendless. You are ungrateful 
to those friends of the past.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, I am not ungrateful. I can never 


A HARD LESSON. 


forget your aunt’s kindness to me — nor yours; but — 
but ” 

“ There can be no ‘but’ in the matter. You are bound 
to me. You promised me years ago to become my 
wife. You are engaged to me — you cannot, you shall 
not, break that engagement, which you entered into of 
your own free will.” 

The window crashed open behind them. Gilbert 
Nugent strode across the room. 

“ It is a lie ! he cried loudly and roughly ; “ a base, 
cowardly lie!” 

Helen shrank back with a faint cry. Nugent’s face 
was distorted with passion. He stood between them 
both like an avenging Nemesis, looking angrily from 
one to the other. “ It is a lie!” he repeated once more, 
as though he could not say it often enough. 

Frederick Warne settled his spectacles upon his nose, 
and gazed with mild curiosity at the intruder. 

“ Ahem ! I do not quite know who you are, sir, nor 
why you interrupt me in this violent manner — and with 
such — a — immoderate expressions. But if you will 
kindly explain your intrusion, I will give you a reason- 
able hearing.” 

“ And I do not know by what right you are here, alone 
with this lady, sir!” retorted Nugent furiously; “nor 
why you make assertions concerning her that have no 
foundation in truth. Miss Dacre is engaged to be mar- 
ried to me. She can have nothing whatever to do with 
you. Desist, therefore, from your unwelcome attentions 
and leave the room at once.” 

Frederick Warne smiled with tranquil superiority. 
“ You are laboring under a delusion, my dear sir. Miss 
Dacre has been engaged to me for nearly three years ; 
she cannot possibly be engaged to you.” 


A HARD LESSON. 


185 

“ I do not believe it. ” 

“I am sorry,” and Frederick Warne shrugged his 
shoulders contemptuously. “ How can I convince you? 
Here are Miss Dacre’s letters.” He produced a packet 
from his pocket and held it out for inspection. 

Gilbert’s eyes fell upon the handwriting. It was un- 
doubtedly Helen’s. He pushed the man’s hand roughly 
away. 

“Oh, if you still doubt me, I will not read them. 
Ask Miss Dacre herself. She will scarcely to my face 
be able to deny her relations to me.” 

Nugent turned toward her. The white face, the 
trembling form, the averted eyes, all struck a cold chill 
of horrible conviction to his heart. 

“ Helen,” he said, controlling himself with difficulty, 
and speaking in a. low and calmer voice, “ will you not 
deny this man’s statements, and tell him that they are 
false?” 

“ I cannot,” she murmured almost inaudibly. 

“They — they are true, then?” 

“ They. are true.” Her voice was almost extinct. 

There was a moment of profound silence. 

Then Nugent turned and said in a perfectly quiet 
and polite manner — 

“ I must apologize very sincerely, Mr. — Mr. ?” 

“ Warne, sir — Warne. ” 

“ Thanks, Mr. Warne. For my intrusion, and for the 
violence of my language to you, I must beg that you 
will pardon me. Will you, however, reward evil with 
good by permitting me to say three words in private to 
this lady, ere I wish her farewell, and remove myself 
out of her way forever? I shall esteem it as a great 
favor if you will grant me this trifling request?” 

“ Certainly, sir ; certainly. I cannot refuse so reason- 


i8 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


able a demand; and as I am a guest in Lady Camilla’s 
house till to-morrow, I shall no doubt have the oppor- 
tunity of finishing my conversation with Miss Dacre in 
the morning, when I trust she will be in a more reason- 
able frame of mind.” 

He bowed and left the room. 

Gilbert and Helen were left alone. She sank down 
upon a sofa, her face buried in her arms. 

It did not occur to her to excuse or to justify herself. 

She knew his high standard of truth, and she knew 
that she had fallen from it. There was nothing more 
to be said. 

“ Then,” he said, at length, after a silence that seemed 
to her to be interminable, “then — you lied to me?” 

A long, low sob was her only reply. 

“ And I, who believed in you ! who trusted you ! who 
thought you the incarnation of goodness ! Why did you 
do it?” 

She lifted her tear-stained face. 

“ Because I loved you, Gilbert, and because I meant 
to break off my engagement to that man as soon as I 
could.” 

“You were engaged to him then; and knowing this 
you engaged yourself to me? May I inquire,” he con- 
tinued, with a sneer more cruel than his reproaches, 
“ whether you intended to carry on the farce to the bit- 
ter end, and to marry us both ?” 

“ Oh, do not be hard on me — do not be hard ” she 

sank down from her seat and fell on her knees at his 
feet, uplifting her clasped hands in piteous entreaty 
toward him ; “ do not be hard. Remember that I loved 
you.” 

“ And yet, when I asked you — when I begged you to 
be open with me, to tell me the. truth, when I laid bare 


A HARD LESSON. 


I8 7 


my own life to you, and told you all my past — yet you 
were afraid; and you spoke that pitiful lie, knowing 
that I should never forgive you!” 

He spoke sternly, turning resolutely away, so that he 
should not see her streaming eyes, nor be softened by 
the sight of her pleading face. 

She clung to his arm, dragging herself after him on 
her knees as he tried to move away from her. 

“Oh forgive me — forgive me!” she wailed; “forgive 
me — take me back!” 

“No; I will never forgive you,” he said coldly and 
angrily. “How could I ever believe in you again? 
Your lips would never again seem to me to speak the 
truth ; your eyes would look deception, your every ges- 
ture would awaken my constant suspicion ! How can a 
man take back so false a thing as you are?” 

She rose, staggering blindly, to her feet. Her prayer, 
her humiliation had been in vain. 

They stood a little way apart ; he with averted head 
and gloomy brow, she white to the lips, her hands folded 
meekly across her breast, her eyes full of an unutterable 
tragedy fixed despairingly upon him. 

“ How could I tell that you would take it so cruelly?” 
she wailed ; then, as he answered nothing, she said again, 
this time in a dull, far-away voice, that sounded dim 
and unreal even in her own ears, “Then it is all over?” 

“Yes, it is all over,” he answered, and without an- 
other look he turned away and left the room. • 

The door closed softly behind him. There was an 
instant in which she did not move ; then suddenly she 
put up both hands to her head, and, with a quick gasp- 
ing breath, fell forward on to the floor in a dead faint. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


All the next day Helen lay in bed in her darkened 
room. Her head was racked with pain ; sleep had not 
once visited her during the whole night. She tossed 
about from side to side on her tumbled pillow, and 
could find no rest. She was in a burning fever. And 
all the time the aching anguish at her heart was worse, 
far worse to bear, than any mere physical pain. 

Lady Camilla came once in the morning and stood 
by her bedside. 

“ You are very feverish, my dear — you had better let 
me send for the doctor. You are going to be ill, I am 
afraid,” and she laid a not unkindly hand upon the girl’s 
burning forehead. 

“No, no; I am not ill,” she moaned; “only let me 
lie here. I cannot get up.” 

“ You shall not get up if you don’t want to.” Then, 
after a minute, she added, “ Poor Mr. Warne is so 
unhappy; he cannot go away, he says, if you are ill. 
So I have asked him to stay on.” 

No answer; only Helen twisted herself round upon 
her pillows, and hid her face from her hostess’s sight. 

“Will you not send him a kind message, poor man?” 
asked Lady Camilla presently. 

But there was no answer to her question, and after 
waiting vainly for a few minutes she stole away quietly 
from the room. 

Later on in the day Mrs. Torrington, too, paid her a 
visit. 


188 


A HARD LESSON. 


189 


“ How are you, my dear?” she said briskly. “ Better, 
I hope? You must have caught a chill in London, I 
suppose. Are you not going to get up for dinner?” 

“ No; I want to be quiet,” was her only answer. 

“ Dear me, what a bore it is, your being ill!” cried 
the widow cheerfully. “ We are so dull without you. 
Your beloved is sulking in a chimney comer over the 
newspaper, Camilla is dozing over her “ poor- work, ” and 
now that Gilbert has gone I haven’t a soul to speak to.” 

Helen lifted herself a little upon her tumbled pillows, 
and looked at her. 

“He has gone?” she asked faintly, fixing her haggard 
eyes upon her visitor. 

“ Oh dear, yes ; he was off directly after breakfast, 
full of delight at the prospect of a week’s capital pheas- 
ant shooting. Men always fall on their feet, my dear. 
If it can’t be hunting, then it’s shooting; or if they 
can’t get either, then they can flirt and break some 
wretched woman’s heart, by way of sport. Gilbert is a 
good hand at that game — as I dare say you have found 
out by now! For being able to make a complete and 
utter fool of any woman who is weak enough to listen 
to him, commend me to Gilbert Nugent of all men 
upon earth! You see I know his ways so well!” 

“ You — you think, then, that he fools women? That 
— that — he means nothing?” 

“ Think it ! Why I know it, my dear child ! For 
bound to me though he is, I often used to suffer myself 
on account of Gilbert’s little ways. But I’ve got used 
to them by now; I’ve got used to them. I take no 
notice of the flirtations — that is the best way. I used 
to break my heart over them, but I have learnt wisdom. 
Just now, for instance, I might very easily be making 
myself wretched, seeing that Mrs. Delastair, whom he 


190 


A HARD LESSON. 


has gone to stay with, is one of the most outrageous 
flirts I ever came across, and she is simply madly in 
love with Gilbert.” 

“But surely she is married? There is a Mr. Dela- 
stair, is there not?” 

“ To be sure there is, you sweet innocent ! But you 
don’t suppose that stands in the way, do you? Oh! 
Mrs. Delastair is not too particular, I assure you ; and 
Gilbert is so weak, she can make him do anything. 
He is going to have a very fine time, indeed, with Mrs. 
Delastair, you may be certain — a real, desperate flirta- 
tion! But you see I am philosophical, and it doesn’t 
trouble me.” 

Helen had closed her eyes. She lay back upon her 
pillows, pale and exhausted. Every word of the above 
speech seemed to cut into her heart like a knife. Dora 
looked at her curiously. 

“I’ve given her something nice to lie and think 
about!” she thought viciously. “I’ll teach her to 
come between me and mine again!” 

“I wish you would go,” said Helen presently, open- 
ing her eyes once more. 

“ Well, upon my word you are not particularly polite, 
my dear girl! Have I annoyed you by telling you the 
truth about our fascinating Gilbert? Try not to care, 
my dear — be philosophical, as I am ! You see it doesn’t 
disturb me much.” 

“Because you don’t love him,” said Helen coldly. 
“ If you did, you could not endure to think that he had 
gone away to flirt with a horrid, married woman. ” 

Dora laughed quite pleasantly. “Well, I wouldn’t 
distress myself on his account, if I were you. Out of 
sight is out of mind with Gilbert Nugent, my dear, and 
any little notice he may have taken of you — ” 


A HARD LESSON. 


I 9 I 

“Will you go — go? Go!” she cried, driven almost 
past bearing. “ Don't you see that I am ill, and I want 
to be let alone? Your very voice is a torture to me!” 

“Oh, certainly, I will go. I am only sorry I took 
the trouble to come and see such an ungrateful, disa- 
greeable young woman!” and the widow flounced out 
of the room in a pretended rage, slamming the door 
noisily after her as she went. 

But outside in the passage she laughed again, for she 
was not at all angry really — she was only delighted. 
Delighted that she had been able to stab her enemy yet 
deeper with her cruel and malicious words — words for 
which there was not a shadow of foundation; for no 
one knew better than Mrs. Torrington did that, far 
from being the bold and unscrupulous flirt she had 
described her to be, Mrs. Delastair’s whole character 
and conduct was so much above the shadow of a reproach 
as to lay her open to the imputation of being almost a 
prude. 

The day wore to a close without bringing to Helen 
any relief. She continued perfectly prostrate. The 
hot fever of the first few hours had abated, and she 
remained only so weak that she was incapable either of 
thought or of movement. 

“All is over,” she said to herself aloud more than 
once, repeating the last words he had spoken to her, 
with a sort of dull apathy. 

If life could only have been over as well. But when 
our hearts are broken we are not often permitted to lay 
down the burden of existence, too. We are forced to 
get up, maimed and faint and bruised as we are, to 
take up that load once more, and to carry it on in some 
fashion to the end. 

At twenty, too, there is still so much of life before us 


192 


A HARD LESSON. 


to be got over — so little of it left behind. And if once 
the young spirit be crushed and subdued out of its glad 
independence, who can tell how easily it may not be 
coerced and broken down? 

No one knew this better than did Lady Camilla. 
That was probably why she had pressed Frederick 
Warne to remain at Old Park until Helen should be 
better. 

Hearts, it is well known, have been caught at the 
rebound ; and in the absence of both her elderly admirer 
and the more dangerously fascinating Nugent, Helen, 
thought her enemies, might very possibly be persuaded 
to console herself with the constancy and undoubted 
devotion of the lover of her youth. 

It was decreed that pressure should be brought to 
bear upon her. 

With the evening, Mr. Greyson returned home, and 
great was his amazement at finding Mr. Frederick 
Warne installed on a familiar footing in his own house. 

“Who, in the name of fortune, is this fellow you 
have got staying here?” he inquired irritably of his 
wife, when she had followed him upstairs into his 
dressing-room. 

“ You may well ask, my dear!” replied Lady Camilla, 
laughing. “ Isn’t he an awful creature? However, it’s 
not my doing that he is here, as you may imagine. 
He came to see Helen Dacre. It appears he is en- 
gaged to be married to her, but she is treating him 
rather badly, poor man. She pretended to be ill, and 
has stopped in her bed all day, and the man refuses 
to go away without seeing her. What on earth was I 
to do?” 

“What confounded nonsense! Why don’t you make 
her get up? But, I say, my love, how about your little 


A HARD LESSON. 


193 


plans for her? What a sly puss she must be to have 
kept this engagement dark. Well, anyhow, let us hope 
it will take her safely out of harm’s way, as far as 
Bainton is concerned.” 

“ I am sure I hope so. But what am I to do with her 
if she wont get up? We don’t want this young man 
quartered upon us forever.” 

“ Certainly not. Make her get up and see him this 
evening. Tell her she must come down to dinner — say 
that I have said she must, if you like. Then the man 
can go by the ten o’clock train to-morrow morning, and 
we shall get rid of him; and, my love, had you not 
better write to Bainton?” 

Lady Camilla was less prepared to adopt this sugges- 
tion than the previous one ; but, armed with her hus- 
band’s authority, she marched up forthwith to Helen’s 
bedroom, poked the fire, lit the candles upon the 
dressing-tables, and sat herself down resolutely by the 
side of the bed. 

“ Now, my dear child, you really must exercise a lit- 
tle self-control. You cannot lie in bed forever, and it 
is time that you should get up and join the rest of the 
family. Mr. Greyson has returned, and he particularly 
desires you to come down to dinner. You say that you 
are not ill, and will not let me send for the doctor, so 
that there can be no reason for your remaining in bed 
any longer. There is an hour before dinner ; so now 
get up at once, like a good child, and I will send your 
maid to you.” 

Helen lifted herself a little upon her pillows and fixed 
her eyes, haggard and disfigured by weeping, upon her. 

“ Has Mr. Warne gone away?” she asked. “ If he 
has, I will get up. ” 

“No; he has not gone away, and he refuses to do so 


194 


A HARD LESSON. 


until he has seen you once more. Really, Helen, you 
are very inconsiderate. Don’t you see to what incon- 
venience you are putting Mr. Greyson and myself by 
your obstinacy? I have, of course, been glad to be civil 
to Mr. Warne for your sake; but naturally we don’t 
want him here forever, and Mr. Greyson has friends of 
his own coming to stay to-morrow; and — in point of 
fact — we want his room.” 

“ Why don’t you tell him so?” 

“ I have done so, but he will not take the hint. All 
he says is, that when he has seen you he will go — not 
before.” 

Helen sank back despairingly. 

“I will not see him — I will not see him!” she began 
somewhat wildly ; then all at once she became calmer, 
and in a different voice she added, “ I am very ungrate- 
ful, Lady Camilla! You must forgive me. I will try 
and do as you wish ; but oh ! will you not help me? will 
you not advise me?” She reached out her hands and 
took hold of Lady Camilla’s, bending her face down so 
that she could feel the hot tears that dropped one by 
one upon them. 

“I have no one,” she wailed, “no one to help me. 
Oh, you are so much older and wiser. Can you not tell 
me what to do? I cannot marry Frederick Warne. I 
do not love him. How am I to escape from it? Oh, 
do— do help me!” 

For a moment Lady Camilla’s heart misgave her. 
That piteous appeal from the orphan girl, those scalding 
tears upon her hands, that trembling prayer for help, 
touched even her cold and selfish nature with pity. 

“ You, who are a mother, ” continued poor Helen, in her 
misery, “ will you not be as a mother to me, who have 
none?” But at those words Lady Camilla remembered 


A HARD LESSON. 


*95 


Ted and his prospects, and hardened herself quickly 
again into granite. 

“ My dear Helen, I will give you my advice with 
pleasure,” she answered coldly, ‘ 1 although I fear that 
you will not like what I am going to say ; for most dis- 
tinctly do I believe it to be your duty to keep your 
plighted word, given years ago to Mr. Warne, who is a 
most estimable young man, and who does not deserve 
to be jilted in so shameful a manner. I must, therefore, 
request you to get up at once, and to come downstairs 
and give him a proper answer to his wishes. ” 

Helen dropped Lady Camilla’s hands, and dashed 
her tears away from her eyes. Her head fell back upon 
her pillows, and a little hopeless sigh broke from her 
lips. 

There was no help for her here, then. She had made 
her little appeal, and had failed ; and now there was no 
one but herself to be depended on. But was there no 
one? Had she not still one friend? 

Suddenly an entirely new idea flashed into her mind — 
taking her breath away a little as it did so. 

“Now promise me to get up, Helen,” Lady Camilla 
was saying to her, once more ; “ be a good child, and 
get up at once.” 

“ If you will go away I will get up,” answered Helen ; 
“ and I will come downstairs — not to dinner, but 
immediately afterward.” 

Lady Camilla deemed it wiser to be satisfied with 
this concession, and murmuring a few words of appro- 
bation, left the room. 

No sooner had the door closed upon her than Helen 
sprang from her bed. She had no time to lose. 


CHAPTER XXIII, 


It was so short a time ago since Helen had been 
travelling homeward from London in the darkness of 
a winter evening, that to find herself once more in the 
train seemed only like a curious continuation of her 
previous adventures in London. The last two days and 
their incidents, the loss of her lover’s affection, the 
persecution she had endured from Frederick Warne and 
from Lady Camilla, her own illness and despair — all 
seemed like a horrible and unreal nightmare, out of 
which she had fought and struggled vainly to awaken, 
but from which the rushing train was now bearing her 
every moment farther and farther away. 

And yet, when the many lights of London began to 
shine out feebly on every side through the dark and 
murky atmosphere, a terrible sense of her loneliness 
and of the desperate straits which had driven her into 
flight from the house that had been her home during 
the last two months, reminded her but too surely that 
her unhappiness was true and actual enough. 

It had all been so hurried. From the moment when, 
upon Lady Camilla’s cruel and heartless repulse, she 
had suddenly resolved that nothing on earth should 
force her into another interview with Frederick Warne, 
and that to avoid it she would make her escape from 
her tormentors, until the moment when she had put 
that idea into execution, and had actually turned her 
back forever upon Old Park — she had scarcely had time 
to breathe, far less to realize the importance of the step 

196 


A HARD LESSON. 


197 


she was about to take, nor to weigh its possible conse- 
quences. 

She dressed herself quickly and quietly, without,, 
summoning her maid; then, packing a dressing-bag 
with a few indispensable necessaries, she wrapped her- 
self up warmly in a long fur cloak, and concealed her 
face beneath a thick veil. Thus equipped, she awaited 
the moment when the inmates of the house were all 
occupied with dinner in the dining-room, in order to 
creep noiselessly downstairs and out at the front door. 

To walk down the avenue, along the frozen road to 
the village, and from thence to take the village fly to 
the station, had been a simple and easy matter. She 
had plenty of money with her, and when she made the 
good people at the public-house understand that she 
meant to catch the eight-forty up train, and was ready 
to pay handsomely if they helped her to do so, she 
encountered no difficulty in carrying out her wishes. 
That she was easily recognized as the young lady stay- 
ing at the big house did not disturb her, because it 
must certainly be over an hour before any alarm as to 
her disappearance could be given at the house, and by 
then she would be well on her way to London; and 
there was, moreover, no later train by which she could 
be followed. 

So she effected her escape quite easily, and without 
the slightest hindrance. But when the journey was 
over, and she got to the London terminus, she began 
for the first time to realize that she had taken a desper- 
ate step, and that she was indeed alone in the world. 

Her experience of London was small. She had never 
been alone in the great city before, and when she found 
herself in a four-wheeled cab with her bag by her side, 
all sorts of foolish fears and apprehensions beset her. 


198 


A HARD LESSON. 


The way to Portman Square seemed interminable; 
the endless turnings of the narrow streets bewildered 
her. She knew neither where she was nor whither she 
was going, and the sickly glare of the gaslights through 
the yellow fog did nothing to enlighten the position. 
She had read stories — who has not? — of cabmen who 
have been evil characters, and who have driven igno- 
rant and lonely female passengers into foul slums, and 
there have robbed or even murdered them; and, 
although no doubt such fancies are exceedingly silly 
and far-fetched, yet she could not help recalling these 
tales of horror and dwelling personally upon the possi- 
bility of their being repeated in her own case. 

It was indeed a relief to her when, after what seemed 
to her over an hour of objectless turnings and twistings 
in every conceivable direction, the cab drew up at 
length before a lofty portico, and the cabman — a most 
respectable father of a family, if she had only known 
it — descended from his box and put his head in at 
the window. 

“ Shall I ring the bell, miss?” 

“ Is this the house?” asked Helen, peering nervously 
out, through the fog. And then, to her unspeakable 
relief, it seemed to her that she recognized the door. 

“This is Number 52, Portman Square, fast enough. 
Shall I ring?” 

“Yes, please — or, no — let me out, please.” 

The man opened the door and helped her out, and 
carried the bag on to the doorstep. Then, with that 
discrimination concerning the innocence and ignorance 
of his “ fares ” which the London cabman usually dis- 
plays, he boldly and unblushingly asked exactly double 
the money to which he was lawfully entitled. 

Helen, knowing no better, paid it without a word, 


A HARD LESSON. 


T 99 


and cabby, remounting his box with a civil “ Thank ye, 
miss,” and an internal chuckle over his own acuteness, 
drove away into the fog and was seen no more. 

Helen and her bag waited upon the doorstep. It 
seemed a very long time before anybody answered the 
bell, and she was upon the point of ringing again, when 
she heard approaching footsteps across the flagged hall 
within, and the door opened. An insolent-looking 
young footman, still struggling into one sleeve of the 
coat he had leisurely donned upon the summons of the 
door-bell, looked out at her. 

“ Is Lord Bainton at home?” inquired Helen timidly. 

“ Yes; he is at home — but you can’t see him,” was 
the uncivil reply. 

“Oh, but I must see him if he is at home,” said 
Helen, making a movement to enter the house. But 
the youth stood well before the open door and barred 
the way. 

“My horders is to hadmit no one,” he said impu- 
dently. “No hadmittance ’ere hexcept on business. 
So you clear off, young woman.” 

It was certain that Helen could not enter into physical 
opposition with a footman ; and yet, short of endeavor- 
ing to push by him by force, there seemed to be no 
chance of her effecting an entrance into her guardian’s 
house. Crimson with shame and with anger, too, she 
was on the point of drawing back in despair, when over 
the footman’s head she perceived the form of the portly 
butler, advancing to the assistance of his inferior officer. 
The footman she had never seen before; but, to her 
unspeakable relief, she remembered the butler perfectly, 
having seen him on the only occasion that she' had been 
to the house before, when her guardian had brought 
her up from Aberdare House to London last September. 


200 


A HARD LESSON. 


She called him by name, and Davis came quickly 
forward. 

“ Why, gracious me, it’s Miss Dacre!” he exclaimed. 
“Out of the way, Charles; don’t you see it’s a lady? 
Stand aside and let Miss Dacre in, and take her bag at 
once, you blockhead.” 

“ My horders was to hadmit no one,” grumbled the 
crestfallen Charles ; “ ’ow was I to know who a young 
person on foot, with no luggage to speak of, might 
chance to be?” 

“ Can’t you tell a lady when you see one?” retorted 
his chief angrily. “I’m sure I hope you’ll excuse 
him, miss; he only come in last week, and he haven’t 
learnt any manners yet. ” Which was rather hard upon 
Charles, who, after all, had only done exactly what he 
had been told to do. 

When she was inside the hall, which was large and 
well warmed with a blazing fire, Helen turned again 
to the butler. 

“ I want to see my guardian at once, please, Davis. 
Can you take me to him?” 

“ Dear me, miss, I hope there is no bad news from 
Old Park that has brought you up so sudden? Her 
ladyship?” 

“ Her ladyship is perfectly well. There is nothing 
amiss,” answered Helen quickly, and her heart began 
to beat as she spoke. “Tell Lord Bainton that it is 
quite upon my own affairs that I have come to London. 
Go to him at once.” 

“ I am very sorry, miss — I cannot. The doctor is 
with him — ” 

“The doctor!” repeated Helen, falling back. “He 
is ill, then?” 

“Very ill, I am afraid. He did not wish Lady 


A HARD LESSON. 


201 


Camilla to know anything, so I must ask you not to 
mention it ; but his lordship has been unwell ever since 
he came to town, and this morning he was so much 
worse he sent for his own physician, Dr. Wright, and 
Dr. Wright wished for a second opinion, so we were ex- 
pecting Sir Augustus Rolls every minute for a consulta- 
tion. That was how it was Charles was told so specially 
not to admit anybody, if you will kindly make that excuse 
for him, miss.” 

“ Oh, say no more about that,” cried Helen; “it 
doesn’t matter at all.” And then, poor child, because 
she was so tired and faint and troubled, and because 
this bad news about her only friend had come upon her 
so suddenly, she sank down upon a carved oak chair 
and burst into tears. 

Davis was much distressed, and entreated her to come 
into the library, where there was a fire and a lamp, and 
at that moment a carriage without was heard to pull up 
at the door, and the bell rang loudly. 

“ That must be Sir Augustus,” said Davis, as he hur- 
ried Helen into the library. “ I will send the house- 
keeper to you, miss.” 

After a few minutes the housekeeper — a kind-faced, 
motherly person — made her appearance, and Helen 
soon found herself kindly treated and deferentially 
waited upon. Her walking things were taken from 
her, a pair of shoes from her small luggage placed 
upon her feet, in the place of her damp and heavy boots, 
and a tray with food and wine was brought to her. 

But, although she was, in truth, exhausted for want 
of rest and nourishment, she could neither sit still for 
many seconds, nor could she swallow more than a few 
mouthfuls of bread and wine. 

The knowledge that those doctors upstairs were sit- 


202 


A HARD LESSON. 


ting in conclave over her guardian’s condition; the 
fear that his life might be in danger ; and the knowledge 
that .she could do nothing for him but sit helpless until, 
perhaps, the worst of news should be brought to her, 
drove her into a perfect fever of suspense and anxiety. 

She thought over all Lord Bainton’s kindness and 
affection to her, recalling numberless instances of his 
forethought and consideration ; and she reproached her- 
self bitterly that she had undervalued his devotion, 
and never done or said enough to express to him her 
appreciation of his goodness to her. Even his unfor- 
tunate desire to marry her, that had scared and horrified 
her so much, in the face of real illness and danger 
ceased to shock and terrify her. She felt that if only 
his life might be spared, and his health restored, there 
was nothing on earth which she would not do to prove 
her gratitude to him. 

After all, she thought, as she sat counting the weary 
moments, whilst miserable tears flowed again and again 
from her eyes — after all, what other friend had she on 
earth but him ? Lady Camilla had turned against her, 
and striven to drive her into a hateful union; Mrs. 
Torrington had tricked and betrayed her ; the man she 
loved had condemned and renounced her. She had no 
other friend on earth but Lord Bainton. To him alone 
could she turn for help, and if he were to die — oh! 
what then, was to become of her? 

It was nearly an hour before a sudden opening and 
shutting of doors and rapid footsteps across the halJ 
without, together with a confused murmur of voices, 
told her that the doctors were at length taking their 
departure. Helen, pale with alarm and anxiety, sprang 
from her seat and rushed to the door. She was just in 
time to see the two elderly and serious-looking physi- 
cians ushered out of the house by the bowing Davis. 


A HARD LESSON. 


203 


‘‘Well?” she cried, rushing across the hall, as the 
butler closed and barred the mahogany doors. She 
could not utter another word, but her white and anxious 
face looked the rest. 

“ Well, miss, I am thankful to tell you that there is 
good hopes of his lordship’s getting over this attack.” 

“Thank God! thank God!” 

“ It seems he have had a sort of a fit ; but there has 
been no return of it, and no signs of any return ; and 
Sir Augustus says if he can keep right for the next 
twenty-four hours or so he will, in all human probabil- 
ity, pull through, and be able to be about again. Only, 
in course, he must be kept quite quiet.” 

“Then, I fear, I cannot see him.” 

“ Not to-night, miss.” 

“ Can I not help to nurse him?” 

“There is a nurse upstairs the doctors have sent. 
No, miss, you can do nothing but go to bed, and the 
sooner the better, if I might be so bold as to say so.” 

“ You did not tell him I was here?” 

“No, Miss Qacre. But 1 told the doctors, and they 
said that if he has a good night and they find in the 
morning that he is going on well, it would do him 
good to see you, very likely ; so you see there is nothing 
for it but patience, miss — and there’s your bedroom all 
ready for you. So if you will go upstairs the house- 
maid shall wait on you, and we must hope for better 
news in the morning. ” 

So Helen went to bed; and so worn out was she by 
all the changes and emotions of this weary and eventful 
day, that no sooner had she laid her head upon her pil- 
low than she fell into a deep and dreamless slumber, 
and never woke again until it was broad daylight. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


To meet again a person whom we have last seen in 
robust health, after serious illness, however brief, has 
laid its touch upon him, must always be productive of a 
certain shock to the feelings of a sensitive person. For 
it is impossible but that sickness should create a subtle 
change in the familiar face and form which we have 
been accustomed to see in health and activity. 

Helen — when, toward noon on the following day, 
she was ushered into the dimly lighted bedroom where 
her guardian, propped up on his pillows, awaited her 
visit — was immediately conscious of an indefinable 
alteration in him. 

It is not too little to say that, in spite of the favorable 
and encouraging report which the doctors had given of 
him at their morning visit, and in spite of the apparently 
slight nature of the attack he had gone through, she 
had no sooner caught sight of the white face and hollow 
eyes, of the wasted hands eagerly held out to greet her, 
than a sudden conviction struck like a cold chill to her 
heart, and she felt that death had set his mark upon 
the man. 

She was certain of it. Later on she doubted and 
wavered — hope asserted itself once more — and she 
strove to persuade herself that her own ignorance and 
nervousness had led her into terrors that had no founda- 
tion; yet all these after-thoughts never completely 
sufficed to wipe out that first and dire impression which 
his appearance made upon her as she entered his room. 

204 


A HARD LESSON. 


205 


“My dearest child!” he said, in a faint voice, as he 
took her hand in his. “ This is indeed a pleasure. I 
hear that you came last night. You must have divined, 
I think, by magic, how much I longed for you. Sit 
down. Sit down, my dear.” 

His evident delight touched her. She took the chair 
by his bedside which had been set for her, and made 
inquiries after his health. 

“Oh, I am better — much better,” he answered hur- 
riedly. “ I shall cheat the doctors yet. But never 
mind me ; tell me of yourself. Why have you come to 
your old guardian? Have you changed your mind about 
what I asked you, and have you come to tell me so?” 

“Oh, no, no!” cried Helen hastily, withdrawing her 
hand from his and coloring painfully. “ How can you 
suppose me capable of such lack of modesty? Even if 
I had, as you suggest, changed my mind — which I could 
never, never do — I should at all events not be so 
unwomanly as to come to your house to tell you so.” 

The sick man’s head fell back upon his pillow; the 
little flush of excitement faded quickly from his face. 
Helen, glancing apprehensively at him, saw that a gray 
pallor swept over his features at her words. 

“Oh, do not be angry with me,” she cried remorse- 
fully. 

“Angry! I can never be angry with you, child. I 
am only disappointed — so dreadfully disappointed. ” And 
then he sighed so deeply that it went to her heart. 

There were a few moments of silence. Lord Bainton 
closed his eyes wearily, as though he had nothing more 
to say, and Helen felt painfully embarrassed. Presently 
she spoke again, in a low and timid voice — 

“ May I not tell you why I have come to you, my 
dear, kind guardian?” 


20 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


He opened his eyes again and smiled faintly at her. 
“ To be sure ; tell me anything you like. Is my sister 
here, too? I did not want her to know I had been ill, 
for, you see, I am nearly well again now ; but ill news 
flies fast, and perhaps she has heard of it and is in 
London?” 

“No; Lady Camilla is not in town. Dear Lord 
Bainton, I have a dreadful confession to make. I have 
left Old Park. I came away alone and without telling 
anybody. I crept out of the house when they were at 
dinner. Nobody saw me go ” 

“You mean you ran away? My dear child, but this 
is very serious! What induced you to take such an 
extraordinary step? Why, we must telegraph to Old 
Park at once — Camilla will be frightened to death.” 
He stretched out his hand to the call-bell on the table 
by his side, but Helen laid her hand on his and stopped 
him. 

“No; do not telegraph. Do not send to Lady 
Camilla. I will never go back to Old Park. It is 
because I can no longer remain under your sister’s care 
that I have come here, to throw myself upon your 
protection.” 

“Good heavens! What has Camilla done to you? 
Were you not happy with her?” 

“ Perfectly, until she invited Frederick Warne to stay 
in the house, and tried to persuade me that it was my 
duty to marry him.” 

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Lord Bainton faintly. 

“That is why,” continued Helen, “I have come to 
you — for safety — for protection, dear Lord Bainton. It 
cannot be my duty, can it, to marry a man I loathe and 
detest? You will not hand me over to him, will you?” 

“ My dearest child, of course not ! Why, God bless 


A HARD LESSON. 


207 


my soul, what on earth can have possessed Camilla to 
have that dreadful young man in her house? How did 
he get there?” 

“ I do not know. Mrs. Torrington and I came up to 
London for one night three days ago — we came for 
some shopping she wanted to do, and to see a play — 
and when we got home again that man was in the house. ” 
“Aha! that Torrington woman was in it, was she? 
I begin to understand. She and Camilla have been 
playing into each other’s hands.” 

“ Mr. Warne seems to th'ink he has a right ” 

“He has no right — none whatever ” 

“ Of course I did once promise to marry him ; but I 
was very young, and it is a long time ago ; and surely 

it cannot be my duty now ” 

“ Duty ! I never heard of such a ridiculous idea ! It 
is not a question of duty at all; besides, you cannot 
marry anybody till you are twenty- one without my 
consent. All that business goes for nothing. I told 
him so at the time. What on earth has put it into his 
head to presume to raise the subject again?” 

“He has some letters of mine ” 

“The devil he has! What sort of letters — love 
letters?” 

“ I am afraid they might be called so — not that I ever 
cared for him ; but I was very young and friendless, 
and ” 

“ My dear, do not remind me of the years I left you 
at that school — left you to fall into such a miserable 
mistake as this engagement! If you only knew how 
bitterly I reproach myself often for it ! My only excuse, 
Helen, is that I had not seen you for so long I did not 
know what a sweet and charming young woman you 
had become. Still, I can never forgive myself.” 


2oS 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Dear Lord Bainton, do not distress yourself. It 
was not your fault, and, besides, my engagement was 
my own doing. And these letters ” 

“Can you not get them back? Have you asked for 
them?” 

“ Over and over again ; but he will not give them up. 
I am afraid — it is a dreadful idea — but I am afraid he 
thinks he can make use of them — bring an action 
against me. ” 

Lord Bainton frowned heavily. “ Whether or no he 
can do so, he can at any rate make himself exceedingly 
offensive to you and to me, my dear. We must see what 
money will do. I might be able to buy them back. I 
cannot permit you to be subjected to annoyance from 
this odious person’s persecutions.” Then, suddenly 
turning toward her with a sad, but infinitely tender 
smile, “ Ah, my dear Helen,” he added, “why will you 
not give me the right to protect you, in the only efficient 
way possible, against all troubles and worries of this 
nature ?” 

She made no answer. She understood him well 
enough, but she could not speak. If only there had 
been no one else but Frederick Warne. But there was 
that other secret fast locked in. her heart — that other 
lover whom she had deceived, and who had given her 
up, but whom she loved still with her whole heart ! 

“ I could have married Lord Bainton if I had never 
known Gilbert Nugent,” she said to herself. 

Then the nurse came into the room to put an end to 
her visit, and there was nothing more to be said. She 
crept away from the sick room, softly and noiselessly, 
promising to come again and see him later on in the day. 

“ Think over what I say,” he called out to her, as she 
went out. 


A HARD LESSON. 


209 


She smiled and nodded, but said nothing, as she 
closed the door. 

Long after she had left him, the earl lay quietly, 
with closed eyes, upon his bed, and the nurse thought 
that he was dozing. But his brain had never been 
more fully awake nor his thoughts more active. His 
anger against the underbred schoolmaster who had 
dared to aspire to the woman he loved himself, was 
very great ; but his anger against his own sister, who, 
for the furtherance of her own very patent projects, had 
played into Warne’s hands in so unscrupulous a manner, 
was far deeper and more bitter. His indignation 
against her was so great, that to frustrate her artifices 
and to punish her for her treachery, occupied the whole 
of his mind. The Earl of Bainton perhaps knew, 
at his heart of hearts, that his days on earth were 
numbered. 

“ If anything were to happen to me,” he said to him- 
self, using mechanically that vague form of words 
concerning the only absolute certainty which existence 
holds for all of us — “ If anything were to happen to me, 
what would become of her? And how can I best pro- 
tect her against the jealousy and the avarice of those 
who will surround her?” 

How was he to reach out his hands from beyond the 
grave to protect her who for whom he experienced, 
perhaps, the first and only unselfish affection of his life? 
The answer came to him slowly and after a long time. 
Then he sighed, and again he murmured, half aloud to 
himself, upon his bed — 

“Yes; that would be the way. She would be safe, 
then, from them all ; but would she consent — would she 
consent?” 

Mrs. Hogan, bending down to catch the muttered 

14 


210 


A HARD LESSON. 


words, fancied that his mind was wandering; but Lord 
Bainton had never been clearer-headed in his life. 

“What was that?” he said presently, sharply and 
quite loudly. 

“ Nothing, my lord,” replied the woman. 

“Yes; it was the hall -doorbell, and a cab has stopped 
at the door. Somebody has come in. Ring the bell 
and inquire.” 

“ It doesn’t matter, my lord. They wont trouble 
you, whoever it is, and it’s too early for the doctor, yet. 
Davis wont admit any one else. ” 

“ I tell you some one is in the house. I hear voices 
in the room below. Ring the bell and ask. ” 

And the earl, in spite of his weakened state and fail- 
ing powers, was perfectly right ; for downstairs, in the 
room beneath, standing with his back to the fire, upon 
the hearth-rug, stood at that very moment no less a 
person than Mr. Frederick Warne — serene, self-impor- 
tant, and filled with a sublime confidence in himself 
and in the success of his errand. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


“He called me his ‘good fellow,' ” said Davis, with 
indignation, afterward, in the dignified seclusion of 
the housekeeper’s room, when relating how Mr. Warne 
had walked past and over him, literally and figuratively 
into the library. “ Me — as has lived with his lordship 
for twenty years. He asked if Miss Dacre was stopping 
here, and of course, having no occasion in my position 
of life to tell lies, I admitted that she was, but that she 
was out — and he says, ‘Then I’ll come in and wait till 
she comes in’; and I says, ‘No, sir, you can’t; because 
what I means is, Miss Dacre is “ out” to visitors, and she 
will certainly not see you, because the earl is lying ill up- 
stairs, and my orders is to admit no one but the doctor. ’ 
But I might as well have spoken to the wind, for he takes 
me by the shoulders and shoves me aside — as if I was a 
paltry under-footman — and says, ‘ Stand out of my way, 
my good fellow, and go and tell Miss Dacre at once that 
I mean to stop here till I see her. ’ ” 

“ Shameful !” ejaculated the sympathetic Mrs. Simms. 
“ Whoever can he be?” 

“He’s no gentleman, anyhow,” chimed in the cook. 
“ And what did Miss Dacre do?” 

“ Why, she went as white as ashes, and she says, ‘Oh, 
don’t let my guardian know, Davis — it will upset him 
so much ; but perhaps I had better see the gentleman. ' ” 
“ Pretty creature. What a shame to trouble her ! 
Some begging chap, I’ll be bound he is.” 


21 1 


212 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Well, she gets up and goes out of the drawing-room 
down to the library door, and I says to her, ‘ Miss, if you 
should want anything you just ring the bell loud, and 
I’ll come up at once.’ And she nodded her head and 
went in — and there ! my stars ! — there goes the bell ! I 
must be off!” and away hurried Davis, as fast as his 
fat legs would carry him up the kitchen staircase. 

Frederick Warne was fully convinced of the justice 
of his cause. He had come to Portman Square, at 
Lady Camilla’s suggestion, full of virtuous indigna- 
tion. Helen’s conduct was shameful and irrational, 
and he took no small credit to himself that he was still 
prepared to marry her in spite of it. 

When she entered the library he met her with stem 
and angry reproaches. 

“ Unhappy girl!” he cried, fixing his small, weak 
eyes reprovingly upon her, and standing with his legs 
apart and his hands behind his coat-tails, in the atti- 
tude which had often reduced his pupils into trembling 
submission. 

“ What have you done? Into what fatal position has 
your headstrong insubordination led you?” 

“I really don’t know what you mean, Mr. Warne,” 
replied Helen quietly. “ I am certainly unhappy, 
because my only friend on earth is lying very ill 
upstairs; but what there is ‘fatal’ in my position I fail 
to perceive. ” 

“Then, indeed, you must have lest every womanly 
instinct, if you cannot even see how you have imperilled 
your reputation. ” 

“ Mr. Warne! Are you mad?” 

“ Do not interrupt me. Lady Camilla directed me 
to come here, hoping that we might discover your 
address ; but neither she nor I could have conceived it 


A HARD LESSON. 


213 


possible that you would be actually staying in this 
house — alone — with no lady to protect you.” 

“ Why, where else could I stay with greater safety 
than under the roof of the guardian to whose care my 
father left me? What is there dreadful about it?” 

“ You fail to see. Here you are alone, with no pro- 
tection, in the house of an unmarried man — a man, too, 
who has not borne the best of names all his life with 
regard to women.” 

“Be silent!” cried Helen angrily. “How dare you 
insinuate disgraceful things against such a man as 
Lord Bainton? He has been goodness itself to me. I 
will not hear him maligned. Besides” — and she laughed 
contemptuously — “ at such a time as this it is not only 
wicked, it is also ridiculous, to say such things. Lord 
Bainton is very ill — he is in bed — there is a sick nurse 
in attendance ” 

“ You have not seen him, then?” 

“ Of course I have seen him. ” 

Mr. Warne cast up his hands with a gesture of horror. 

“ Why should I not see him, pray? You seem to for- 
get that he is an old man, and that he is in the position 
of a father to me.” 

“ Miserable girl !” cried the schoolmaster. “ Are you 
indeed so ignorant, and so lost to all sense of right or 
wrong, that you do not understand what the world — 
what all good women — will say of your position here? 
A man who is no relation to you is protected neither 
by age nor by illness. Lord Bainton knows this well 
enough. Did he not have a married lady to travel 
with you when he took you abroad? What will be said 
of you if you persist in casting aside the decencies and 
proprieties of life? My dear child, I entreat you to do 
what is right before it is too late and your rash and 


214 


A HARD LESSON. 


inconsiderate step has become known and commented 
on. Come down at once to Aberdare House, to the 
protection of my dear aunt. I will not even go with 
you. Take some woman servant from this house, or I 
will telegraph to my aunt, and, old as she is, I know 
she will come up by the very first train and fetch you 
away. Believe me, you cannot stay here.” 

For a moment or two Helen was staggered. What 
he said to her was very terrible. She had not thought 
of it before in this light. Was it indeed true that she 
was risking her own good name by remaining in her 
guardian’s house? — that women would speak lightly of 
her by reason of it? # 

Then quickly there came another thought. “ If I do 
as you wish,” she said, “ will you cease to persecute me 
to marry you? Will you release me from my engage- 
ment and give me back my letters?” 

Frederick Warne laughed contemptuously. “ I shall 
make no bargain of that kind, Helen. Your letters are 
too precious to me. I cannot give them up. ” 

Helen saw instantly that no compromise was possible. 
She perceived that all this fine talk about her reputation 
and her anomalous position in the house of her guardian 
meant nothing at all but a scheme to get her away from 
the protection which Portman Square afforded her, in 
order to place her once more in that hated prison of her 
girlhood — under an influence which might, perhaps, 
induce her at length to marry this man against her will. 
She saw at once that Frederick Warne’s covetousness 
would not suffer him to give up his claim upon her. 
He did not care about her good name ; that was a mere 
trumped-up bogey to frighten her. What he did care 
about was her fortune, and his own chances of getting 
hold of it. With this conviction her courage rose. She 


A HARD LESSON. 215 

shook off the disturbance his cruel words had caused 
her, and confronted him once more. 

“ Mr. Wame,” she said very quietly, “ it seems to 
me that this matter is a question of money. How much 
will you take to give me back my letters?” 

“ You insult me, Helen” 

“ Not so much as you insult me. I am willing to pay 
you — or, at any rate, Lord Bainton is willing to do so.” 

“ Pay me ! I never heard of such a thing. How can 
anything repay a man for his wounded affections and 
disappointed hopes?” 

“We will leave your affections out of the question, 
if you please.” 

“Helen! you wrong me — indeed, you do. I have 
the deepest and sincerest feelings for you, and if I spoke 
of bringing an action against you, it is not that I wish 
to carry things to that length ; but that I hope you will 
yield to me before you force me into a proceeding which 
would be most distasteful to me. It is not, as you im- 
ply, a question of money — it is a question of principle — • 
it is for your own good that I long to take you out of 
this life of fashion and of folly, and, I may add, of actual 
danger — back to that safe sphere of sobriety and useful- 
ness in which my aunt so carefully brought you up.” 

At that moment Frederick Warne honestly believed 
himself to be actuated by the most disinterested motives. 

“I will make you a good husband,” he continued, 
almost plaintively. “ Indeed I will. You shall never 
have cause to regret ” 

“ We will not discuss this subject any more, ” inter- 
rupted Helen hastily. “ I shall never be your wife. I 
feel and know that I have, perhaps, treated you badly, 
and that I owe you some reparation. If you will give 
me back those letters and allow the subject to drop, 


A HARD LESSON. 


2 r 6 

you shall be paid. Beyond that I can say nothing, and 
also I must absolutely refuse to see you again.” 

“ That is nonsense” — and this time Frederick Warne 
lost his temper, and spoke angrily and roughly. “ I 
shall bring my aunt here to-morrow. She will, perhaps, 
be able to bring you to your senses, and to a realization 
of your duty.” 

“This is intolerable!” cried Helen, and with a rapid 
movement across the room, she rang the bell loudly. 

“ Miss Fairbrother will not be so ill-advised, I hope, 
as to attempt to enter my guardian’s house upon such 
an errand.” 

“Miss Fairbrother has courage enough to enter any 
house in a righteous and excellent cause,” retorted her 
tormentor. 

“ Davis, show this gentleman to the door, ” was Helen’s 
only reply, as the respectable form of the butler, panting 
a little from the speed with which he had responded to 
her summons, appeared upon the scene. 

Casting a look of rage and malice at the girl’s white 
and angry face, Mr. Frederick Warne took up his hat 
and went. 

He would, perhaps, have been consoled could he have 
looked back into the room and seen Helen five minutes 
after his departure. 

Face downward upon the sofa, the girl lay sobbing 
as if her heart would break. Never had utter despair 
and loneliness so overwhelmed her before. It is true 
that she had never been loved and cared for as other 
girls. All her life long she had been ignorant of that 
tender affection which shelters the early years of most 
young creatures. She had always been thrown upon 
strangers, and her warm heart had longed in vain for 
sympathy and comprehension ; but there had come to 


A HARD LESSON. 


217 


her at last that wonderful change in her fortunes which 
had transfigured her whole life, and for a brief space 
she had deluded herself into believing that her money 
had procured for her the love and the friendship for which 
she had always pined so intensely. But now a rude 
awakening had come to her, and she saw herself sur- 
rounded on every side, not by friends but by foes. 
Avarice, cruelty, and treachery were what her money 
had earned for her, and it was small wonder that she 
felt herself to be helpless and almost hopeless among 
the hideous passions of those who were ready to sacrifice 
her to their own ends and ambitions. 

She had only one friend in the world — only one who 
cared for her, for herself, and was ready to help and 
stand by her — that sick man upstairs upon his bed ! 
Every one else had forsaken or been false to her. She 
had no other hope on earth save in him. 

After a time her tears ceased to flow, and she lay 
quite still with clasped hands, and her great sorrowful 
eyes gazed blankly and miserably out into the sombre, 
half -lit room. Now and again, as the thoughts of the 
man she loved, and whose faith and trust she had lost 
for ever, crossed her mind, she shivered a little. 

“ If I had only been braver,” she moaned aloud once. 
“ If I had only told him the truth. But it is all over 
now — all over.” And then she lay very still again. 
She had no hope from that quarter ; she did not even 
know where he was, and if she had known she would 
not have applied to him. She believed that Gilbert 
Nugent was a man who would never forgive a lie from 
the woman he loved. It was the one unpardonable sin, 
no doubt — and she had committed it. 

After what seemed to her a very long time, although 
it was in fact little more than half an hour, she rose 


2l8 


A HARD LESSON. 


from the sofa and rang the bell. She felt weak and 
cold, and her limbs ached. It was as if she had been 
very ill. 

When Davis came to the door he was shocked by her 
pale and altered looks. 

“ I want to speak to the earl ; will yon please go and 
ask the nurse when I can see him.” 

“You will have some dinner first, miss; wont you? 
You look so tired.” 

“ No. Very well — yes; I will eat something; but go 
and find out first when Lord Bainton will see me. Say 
that I must speak to him to-night before I go to bed.” 

Presently Davis came back to tell her that his master 
would see her in an hour’s time. “ I will bring you 
something to eat at once, miss,” he added, as he left 
the room ; and Helen sat down and waited with much 
the same feeling, perhaps, as a condemned criminal 
awaits his execution. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


Gilbert Nugent, up in Yorkshire, was not enjoying 
his visit to the Delastairs in the least. It is true that 
the sport was excellent, and that he himself was shoot- 
ing in his best form; true also that the ‘party staying 
in the house was congenial and agreeable to him, whilst 
as for the house itself, it was what it always had been — 
the most charming house in all England. The host 
and hostess were the soul of hospitality, the cook was 
faultless, and every arrangement, both indoors and out, 
was so admirably carried out that nothing was left to 
be desired. Surely a man must be difficult to please 
indeed who could not make himself thoroughly happy 
at Holmby Hall! Yet, in spite of all this, Nugent 
was undeniably miserable. 

He was preoccupied and absent, and often, in the 
midst of the most animated conversation, he remained 
silent and abstracted, his thoughts miles away from 
what was going on about him. His host rallied him 
frequently upon his low spirits, and the other guests in 
the house told each other that Nugent was no longer 
the cheery and delightful companion of old days, and 
that evidently some trouble or annoyance weighed upon 
his mind. 

“ When a man is out of gear it’s generally his liver 
that is out of order,” opined old Colonel Wortley, who 
had been in India for many years, and knew by experi- 
ence what ar'curse a man’s liver may be to him. 

“Or, more likely, it’s money,” suggested a subaltern 
219 


220 


A HARD LESSON. 


on long leave, whose Christmas bills were still follow- 
ing him perseveringly about the country from house to 
house, spoiling his daily appetite for breakfast by their 
matutinal persistency. 

“ Or, perhaps, it may be love,” remarked a young lady 
who had gone through an unhappy love affair herself, 
and felt kindred sympathy for all those similarly affected. 

“It is probably a mixture of all three,” said Mr. 
Delastair, with a laugh. “Clara” — turning to his 
wife — “can you not unravel the mystery concerning 
our friend — you, who are the acknowledged confidante of 
all young men and maidens in distress?” 

Mrs. Delastair, a sweet-faced, fair-haired woman, with 
a gentle manner and an air of refinement that more than 
replaced in her any claim to actual beauty, looked up 
with a smile. 

“If Mr Nugent wants my sympathy, Henry, you may 
be quite sure that he will receive it. Perhaps, poor 
fellow, the cause of his trouble is not difficult to guess?” 

And everybody knew at once that Mrs. Delastair was 
alluding to the unfortunate * influence of Mrs. Torrington 
in Gilbert Nugent’s life; for there were very few peo- 
ple in society who had not heard or seen for themselves 
how complete a slave the unhappy young man had been 
for years to that undesirable little person. 

Gilbert Nugent entering the room at this moment, 
the conversation came naturally to an abrupt conclusion ; 
but that same evening after dinner, Mrs. Delastair, 
finding herself by chance sitting upon the same sofa with 
Nugent, in a retired corner of the large drawing-room, 
found the courage to say to her guest: 

“ What is the matter with you, Mr. Nugent? Henry 
and I think you seem in such bad spirits. I trust nothing 
is amiss with you?” 


A HARD LESSON. 


221 


Nugent was startled out of a reverie of his own, and 
looked up quickly at his hostess. Mrs. Delastair had 
such a gentle voice and such a sweet, womanly face 
that those in trouble often felt themselves impelled as 
though by an irresistible magnetism to confide in her. 
She was trustworthy, too. She never betrayed a con- 
fidence, or took advantage of a moment of weakness. 
Her husband used to say of her laughingly ; “ Clara is 
the recipient of half the confessions of woe in England ; 
but I can never get any of them out of her. She can 
hold her tongue, which is more than most women can 
do, even to her own husband.” 

So, perhaps, it was no wonder that Gilbert, who had 
always liked and respected her, found himself answering 
with a groan : — 

“ Everything is amiss with me, Mrs. Delastair.” 

“Tell me your trouble, Mr. Nugent,” she replied 
softly; “perhaps I may be able to help you. Or at 
any rate it may relieve your mind to talk it over with 
me. Is it — is it — forgive me if I am indiscreet — is it 
the old tie?” 

“Yes — to a great extent. Oh, Mrs. Delastair, you 
have no conception what a dreadful burden it is!” 

“ Why not be a man and break through it? Why don’t 
you find some nice, good girl and marry her?” 

“ Ah, that is just the worst of it ;” and then he told 
her how he had fallen in love with such a girl, and how, 
for her sake, he had determined to free himself from 
his false position with Mrs. Torrington, because he be- 
lieved that his love was returned; but how the girl he 
loved was false, and had told him a lie ; how she her- 
self had a past that was not without a story, and was 
bound by an undesirable engagement which she had kept 
a secret from him and which he had suddenly discovered ; 


222 


A HARD LESSON. 


and that how, because she had told him what was not 
true, he had left her for ever. Yet he could not forget 
her, and he was utterly wretched, though he supposed 
there was nothing for it but to go on in the same mis- 
erable way. Perhaps, indeed, he had better marry Dora 
Torrington at once and have done with it. Perhaps he 
owed it to her, poor woman, to clear her name from 
slander. Perhaps that would be the best thing to do. 

“ Pray do nothing of the kind, Mr. Nugent. There 
can be no object to be gained by making yourself mis- 
erable for the rest of your life, interrupted Mrs. Dela- 
stair, with energy; “ and don’t you think that it would 
be braver and more manly if you were to free yourself 
from this yoke?” 

“ What would be the good of it? I have lost the other. ” 

“ It always seems to me to make difficult things 
simpler if we leave out considerations of that kind — if 
we do what is right, simply because it is right, and not 
because of any results that may or may not happen.” 

Nugent was silent. Had not Helen said something 
of the kind to him, too, when he had asked her advice 
on the night of the ball? 

“ Would it be right, do you think?” he asked doubt- 
fully, after a few minutes of reflection. 

“ Certainly it would be right. ” 

“ But for Dora Torrington? Remember, I am an old 
friend of hers. ” 

“ Be her old friend still — but do not be her slave. 
You have just confessed to me that you love another 
woman whom you wished to make your wife; how, 
then, can you in the same breath talk of marrying Mrs. 
Torrington?” 

“ But there might be a duty toward her — it might be 
a kindness,” 


A HARD LESSON. 


223 


“ It would be kinder to her to remove yourself en- 
tirely out of her way; and it can never be a man’s duty, 
save under most exceptional cases, to marry a woman 
he does not love.” 

“ I believe you are right ; but what do you advise me 
to do?” 

“ Write to her to-morrow. Put things in plain words : 
refuse to see her again. ” 

“ But she will not consent. She pretends that I am 
bound by my honor to remain unmarried for three 
more years. She has a letter of mine. ” 

“ That is all nonsense, Mr. Nugent. If you cannot 
get rid of the woman in any other way, go abroad at 
once. She cannot follow you across the seas.” 

For a minute or two he made no reply, and then he 
sighed rather wearily. 

“ I believe you are right, ” he said, once more. “ You 
always are right, Mrs. Delastair ; but it is a miserable 
lookout for me.” 

“ Because you are spoilt, my dear fellow. You have 
been made too much at home. Go to the other side of 
the world, and rough it a little. You speak of this 
girl, who you say had a story in the past, and who dis- 
appointed your expectations. Who are you, and what 
has your past been, that you should judge her so hardly? 
That is so like a man. However disreputable his own 
life has been, he has never any allowance to make for 
the errors of the woman he honors with his preference. ” 

“ She told me a lie,” he said gloomily. 

“ That was very wrong, of course ; but are you sure 
you did not drive her into it? Can you feel certain that 
there were not excuses to be made for her? I dare say 
she is dreadfully sorry for it now. I dare say she is very 
unhappy, and I am sure you are. You will find that 


224 


A HARD LESSON. 


some day you will have to forgive her for that un- 
truth. ” 

“ Very likely she would not forgive me for condemn- 
ing her so readily.” 

“ Very likel3 r not. But you must give her time. You 
must prove your own sincerity first by clearing your 
own life of all that is discreditable. I don’t consider 
you will be worthy of any girl, however faulty she may 
be, until you have done that. You will forgive me for 
speaking plainly, will you not? I am a plain-spoken 
woman, you know.” 

“ You are the best and kindest woman on earth, Mrs. 
Delas-tair,” said Nugent warmly; and then he got up 
and held out his hand to her. “ If you will excuse me 
I will wish you good night now ; I want to go to my 
own room and think over what you have said quietly. 
Do you know that you have given me back two things 
that I thought I had lost entirely — a little self-respect 
and a little hope?” And then he wished her good night 
and slipped quietly out of the room. 

He was happier that night than he had been for a 
long time. To begin with, Mrs. Delastair had encour- 
aged and strengthened him — Gilbert was very easily 
swayed, either for good or for evil — and a thoroughly 
upright and conscientious influence was never without 
its corresponding effect upon his mobile nature; and 
then she had not condemned Helen Dacre hopelessly. 
She had spoken of her as a good girl ; she had made 
excuses for her fault, and had suggested that she, at 
am r rate, was less blameworthy than himself. All this 
comforted and cheered him. Perhaps, after all, Helen 
had been frightened and coerced ; perhaps she had been 
so hard driven that she had sinned, not through delib- 
eration, but through weakness. Now that the first 


A HARD LESSON. 


225 


brunt of his anger was over he began to make excuses 
for her, to admit that her conduct had not succeeded in 
destroying his love and longing for her, and to see that, 
as Mrs. Delastair had told him, the day would probably 
come when he should be able to forgive her fully and 
freely. 

That very night he wrote his letter to Dora Torring- 
ton. He sat up half the night writing it, and he tore 
up a great many sheets of paper in the doing of it. For 
it was not an easy letter to write. It is never easy for 
a man who has once professed to love a lady to back 
out of these professions and to inform her that he loves 
her no longer. There is, perhaps, no position on earth 
which a man feels to be more uncomfortable and unten- 
able. It is true that in this case Gilbert had already 
paved the way by the most outspoken statements of his 
change of sentiment; but as Dora had always utterly 
refused to accept the resignation which he had vainly 
endeavored to tender to her, he had found himself, after 
all his efforts, not one whit advanced in the struggle 
for freedom which he had already made. But now he 
was resolved that he would indeed be free ; and his let- 
ter was couched in words that spoke this resolution with 
almost a brutal plainness. In fact, to make it clear 
enough, he was obliged to be brutal, and naturally he 
hated himself for being so. Over and over again, dur- 
ing the course of that dreadful night, his evil angel 
reminded him of Dora Torrington’s devotion to him, of 
the years she had clung to him, of the fascination she 
had exercised over him in the early days of their 
acquaintance ; and over and over again he laid down 
his pen, and said to himself, aloud : “ I cannot do it ! I 
cannot be such a brute to her ! I have made my fate, 
and I must continue to endure it!” And it was only 
T 5 


226 


A HARD LESSON. 


the recollection of Mrs. Delastair’s sensible advice, 
and the secret hope that, by following it he might, per- 
haps, some day live to be loved again by Helen Dacre, 
which kept him from throwing aside his self-imposed 
task in hopeless despair. 

The morning light was creeping grayly through the 
chinks in the shutters of his room before that letter 
was finished and addressed and fastened up ; and when 
at length he flung himself upon his bed, he was thor- 
oughly worn out both in mind and in body. 

He soon fell into a deep and dreamless slumber, and 
when he awoke and saw the letter lying addressed and 
sealed upon his table, he felt as though the weight of a 
great trouble had been lifted from his heart. When it 
was actually posted he was happier still, and enjoyed 
his shooting that day more thoroughly than he had done 
since his arrival ; for his easy-going nature persuaded 
itself that all would now be plain sailing He would 
be free, free to go where he pleased, to do as he liked, 
and to begin a new and a better life. 

He even found himself day-dreaming about Helen 
Dacre. A keen recollection of her adorable charms 
returned to him, making his pulses beat quicker and his 
hopes rise high. Mrs. Delastair had told him that he 
would have to forgive her, that she was probably less 
to blame than he had fancied, and that her sin had not 
been unpardonable. He would seek her out ; he would 
forgive her. There should be a reconciliation between 
them, for is not “ making it up” the most delightful task 
in life to two people who love each other? And Gilbert 
told himself that he would seal his forgiveness upon 
the sweetest lips in the world. And then — and then ! 
Oh, how could he ever be grateful enough to Mrs. 
Delastair for making him write that letter? Perhaps, 


A HARD LESSON. 


227 


however, it would have damped Gilbert Nugent’s good 
spirits considerably could he have known that, as far 
as Helen Dacre was concerned, he had penned that let- 
ter at Mrs. Delastair’s instigation exactly twenty-four 
hours too late! 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


In the great gloomy mansion in Portman Square 
there reigned an intense, although curiously suppressed, 
excitement. 

It was in the air : from the lowest cellar to the highest 
attic, the atmosphere was pervaded with it — it seemed 
to permeate into every room of the house ; and there 
was not a servant, from the great Mr. Davis down to 
Sally, the under kitchen girl, who was not full of it. 

There was a coming and going all the' morning 
through the front door — bells that rang incessantly, 
footsteps that hurried constantly across the black-and- 
white flagstones of the hall, and up the soft carpeted 
staircase. The noises, though incessant, were not loud. 
There was a hushed solemnity about it all — almost, it 
might be said, a shocked solemnity. 

The morning tradesmen saw that there was something 
the matter when they came to the back door upon their 
rounds, and glanced anxiously up at the windows to see 
whether, by chance, the blinds were pulled down ; but 
no, the earl was presumably alive, for there were no 
signs of funereal woe about the outer aspect of the 
house. Yet strange and unwonted visitors were pass- 
ing in and out of it, and it was plain that something 
very unusual was taking place within. 

There was, for instance, Mr. Scarsdale, the family 
lawyer, who dashed up at an early hour to the door in 
a hansom, and who went away again, after a brief visit, 
as rapidly as he came, only to return in an hour’s time 

22S 


A HARD LESSON. 


229 


accompanied by his clerk and a large shiny black leather 
bag. Then came the doctors, one after the other, and 
later on both together, and lastly, a visitor who was not 
often seen within Lord Bainton’s door — the vicar of 
the parish. 

All these gentlemen went upstairs on their arrival, 
and were conducted straight into the earl’s sick room, 
where the door was mysteriously shut upon them. 

Meanwhile, in the dressing-room which communi- 
cated with Lord Bainton’s bed-chamber, some very 
extraordinary proceedings were taking place. Here 
might be seen Mrs. Sims, the housekeeper, superin- 
tending and directing the operations of a bevy of maid- 
servants. It was a large room, as large as the bedroom 
itself, and before long it underwent a complete trans- 
formation. After a course of scrubbing and sweeping 
and dusting, which lasted for the better part of an hour, 
Mrs. Sims gave orders that all that appertained to the 
toilet should be removed or hidden from sight. 
Straightway the washing-stand and its belongings 
vanished, the large bath was concealed by a high, 
handsome Japanese screen, and wardrobes, boot cup- 
boards and chests of drawers were so draped and 
transmogrified by Eastern embroideries that their orig- 
inal shape and purpose become unrecognizable. Then 
a table covered by a gold and crimson cloth was set up 
in the centre of the room ; and all being now prepared 
for the last touches, a quantity of beautiful flowers was 
brought in from the most expensive florist of London, 
and from them, in spite of the inclemency of the win- 
ter’s morning, a perfect parterre of hothouse flowers 
and a forest of foliage plants was quickly conveyed into 
the earl’s dressing-room. It was at last a dressing-room 
no longer. It was a lady’s bower — a festal chamber— 


230 


A HARD LESSON. 


or, better simile still, a chapel decorated and adorned 
for a great and joyful occasion. 

All this time, down in the basement, the cook and 
her assistants were also hard at work. A luncheon was 
to be ready at two o’clock : a luncheon of such a recherche 
nature, that it should be a veritable triumph of culinary 
art. This meal was to be served upstairs also, in a 
little unused room on the same floor as Lord Bainton’s 
bedroom and dressing-room that was on the opposite 
side of the landing. 

“ And to think,” exclaimed the cook, as she stood up 
to her eyes in the midst of her saucepans and stewpots, 
“ to think that after all these years and years, his lord- 
ship should have only given me four hours’ notice to 
prepare for such an event as this ! I call it downright 
cruel, that I do. How is a decent cook to keep up her 
credit all in such a hurry as this, I should like to know?” 

All this time Helen Dacre sat by herself in her own 
little room on a higher story of the house. The morn- 
ing was cold and raw, and Helen, after sending away 
almost untasted the breakfast which had been brought 
up to her, sat down shiveringly by the side of the fire. 
Presently she, too, began to receive visitors, Sir 
Augustus Rolls being the first person to request an 
interview with her. 

Helen rose slowly to her feet as the eminent physician 
entered her little sitting-room. She was pale and 
weary, and her eyes were dull and lustreless. She 
looked as if she had not slept all night, and, naturally 
enough, her appearance had suffered considerably. Sir 
Augustus, as he came in, glanced at her sternly and 
coldly ; and he said to himself as he did so, “ She is not 
even pretty. What on earth can be the attraction?” 

He bowed to her coldly, took the chair that she 


A HARD LESSON. 


231 


pushed forward to him, then cleared his throat and 
looked straight into the fire. What he had to say to 
her was not either pleasant or easy to say. 

“ Miss Dacre,” he began awkwardly enough, “ I have 
requested you to grant me this interview because I 
conceive it to be my duty to speak to you most seri- 
ously.” He waited for a minute, and then Helen said 
slowly and inquiringly “Yes?” 

There was another pause. 

“You will, I dare say, understand the unbounded 
surprise — the absolute shock, I may say — with which I 
received at a very early hour this morning the inti- 
mation of Lord Bainton’s most extraordinary inten- 
tions.” 

Again Helen said only “Yes,” with a little accent of 
inquiry, nothing more. 

“ Of course,” continued Sir Augustus, lashing himself 
up into a little burst of indignation, “ no conscientious 
or honorable physician could receive such a communi- 
cation concerning a patient in whom he is interested 
without being deeply concerned and distressed. ” 

As this remark did not seem to require an answer, 
Helen said nothing. 

She was standing by the mantelpiece, with her elbow 
leaning upon it and her face upon her hand. She 
looked very, very tired, and there was something 
almost apathetic in the droop of her slender figure and 
in the downward curves of her sad mouth. Sir Augustus, 
looking up at her sharply, wondered for a moment 
whether she had ever heard what he was saying to her. 
He spoke even a little more brusquely than before in 
consequence. 

“ Of course, Miss Dacre, you are a perfect stranger 
to me, and perhaps you may think that my conduct 


232 


A HARD LESSON. 


savors of interference ; but I have my noble patient to 
think of, and whatever may be your motives in this 
matter, I think it is my duty to him to warn you most 
solemnly against what you are about to do.” 

Helen lifted her head slowly and looked at him. 

“ Why?” she asked wonderingly, whilst a sIqw, red 
flush crept over her face. 

“ Because Lord Bainton is the victim of a mortal 
complaint from which it is quite impossible that he 
can ever entirely recover.” 

She was startled — she clasped her hands together 
with a sudden gesture of dismay. 

“ Oh, no !” she cried with agitation ; “ do not say so — 
it cannot be true!” 

“ It is true. I do not say that he will die to-day or 
to-morrow, or even this year; but his life cannot be 
protracted for very long, even with the greatest care. 
Now that I have spoken to you plainly,” he continued, 
rising from his chair, “ I trust you will pause before 
it is too late, and that you will refuse to consent to 
take a step which can bring to you nothing but trouble 
and sorrow. ” 

“ Oh, but you mistake me entirely. What you tell 
me can only make me tenfold more determined to do 
what I can for him as long as his life is spared.” 

Sir Augustus shrugged his shoulders, and took up 
his hat from the table. It was evident that he did not 
believe her. 

“ It is not for me to be the judge of your motives, 
young lady. ' If you have no friends to advise you 
better, I am sorry for you. In any case, I have relieved 
my own conscience, and you can never say that I 
neglected to warn you. I have the honor to wish you 
good morning. ” 


A HARD LESSON. 


233 


And then he bowed to her again, very coldly and 
stiffly, and left the room. 

“ A heartless, mercenary creature !” he said to him- 
self, as he went quickly downstairs. “ Ready to sell 
herself to a dying man and turn herself into a sick 
nurse for the sake of his title ! Such hardened worldli- 
ness in one so young is positively disgusting. ” 

It never entered into Helen’s mind to imagine that 
any one would judge her so hardly or attribute such 
base motives to her. After the doctor was gone, she 
wondered a little why he had been so harsh and rough 
to her, and why he had told her such a dreadful thing 
about her guardian so brutally and unsympathetically ; 
and she shed a few tears over what he had said. 

“I suppose,” she thought to herself, in extenuation 
of his unkindness, “ that the constant sight of so much 
suffering hardens a doctor’s heart in time. They can’t 
be expected, I dare say, to feel for individual sorrows. 
How could he suppose that I should be so selfish as to 
draw back now just because Lord Bainton may not live 
very long?” 

Presently, however, Helen received another visitor, 
who also said to her some strange and not altogether 
pleasant things. 

This was Mr. Scarsdale, the solicitor. He was a 
white-headed little gentleman, with spectacles on his 
nose, and a perpetual smile on his thin lips that imparted 
a certain amount of nervous amiability to his manner. 
He came in smiling and bowing, and rubbing his hands 
together in quite a friendly fashion, and Helen thought 
at first that she liked him much better than Sir Augustus 
Rolls. But before his visit was over she had reason to 
change her mind. Mr. Scarsdale began by expressing 
himself greatly delighted at making her acquaintance. 


234 


A HARD LESSON. 


He called her his “dear young lady,” said he hoped 
they should be the best of friends, and then sat down 
and pulled off his gloves, smiling at her quite affection- 
ately. 

“ You know, my dear Miss Dacre,” he then remarked, 
quite unexpectedly, “you know I can’t let you do this, 
my dear. You mustn’t think of it! No, don’t interrupt 
me,” as Helen, in extreme surprise, was about to answer 
him, “ you must just listen to me. Of course, you are 
young, and you don’t understand these things — how 
should you? — but there are family considerations, my 
dear Miss Dacre, family considerations of the — very — 
highest importance,” and Mr. Scarsdale brought out his 
words one by one with a little jerk, as though to 
impress them upon her mind. 

“ I do not understand,” began Helen. 

“No, no, of course not! That is just what I say. 
How should a young and charming young lady be 
expected to understand? But — you take my word for it, 
my dear — it mustn’t be done! — it mustn’t be done!” 
and Mr. Scarsdale shook a long and bony forefinger 
playfully at her. 

“ What mustn’t be done, Mr. Scarsdale?” she asked, 
in bewilderment. 

“Ha! ha! As if you did not know ! Ah, these secrets 
can’t be kept from the lawyer, you know. And when 
settlements are to be drawn up on a magnificent scale, 
and wills are to be altered — ” 

“ Settlements? Wills?” repeated Helen, turning upon 
him a pale and startled face. 

“ And natural heirs set aside, all for the sake of one 
charming young lady. Why, then, I say it mustn’t be 
done; it mustn’t, indeed.” 

An inkling of his meaning broke suddenly into her 


A HARD LESSON. 235 

puzzled mind, and with it a great dismay. She sprang 
from her chair and confronted him breathlessly. 

“ Explain to me at once, Mr. Scarsdale, and in as few 
words as possible, what you mean to imply. Has Lord 
Bainton, in consequence of his intentions with regard 
tome, altered his will? Is that what you mean to say?” 

“ He has directed me to prepare a fresh will — an 
unjust will, Miss Dacre. Of course, my dear young lady, 
I do not object to settlement in your favor in reason — 
in reason ; but when it comes to sweeping measures — to 
cutting out altogether the name of his nephew and 
heir, young Mr. Greyson — ” 

“ Ted , /” gasped Helen, below her breath. Ted, who 
had been good to her — who had taught her to ride — who 
had stood by her ! Could she ever forget his honest, 
ugly face, or bring evil upon the head of the boyish friend 
to whom she had sworn a sister’s affection? 

“That will do, Mr. Scarsdale,” she said, suddenly 
turning toward him. “ I am much obliged to you for 
telling me. You need say no more.” 

“ And you will prevent Lord Bainton from carrying 
out this intention of his?” 

“I shall do what I think right,” she answered, with 
some dignity. “ Please leave me.” And Mr. Scarsdale 
went. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


What Helen Dacre had done or had not done was not 
known either to Sir Augustus Rolls or to Mr. Scarsdale 
when, rather more than two hours later, they stood side 
by side in the profusely decorated dressing-room opening 
out of Lord Bainton’s bedchamber as witnesses to the 
strangest marriage ceremony which it had ever fallen 
to the lot of either of them to be present at. 

The clergyman in his canonical robes, with a prayer- 
book in his hand, stood on the further side of the table ; 
the bride in a little dark cloth winter gown, and bearing 
an enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers in her trem- 
bling hands, stood before him. The servants had filed 
in, in a long procession, and stood grouped about the 
door, and from the open door of the bedroom beyond a 
wheeled bath-chair was being slowly pushed forward 
by his lordship’s valet, whilst Mr. Wright, his lordship’s 
doctor, walked by the side of it, steadying it with his 
hands as it advanced toward the impromptu altar. 

The earl had been carefully dressed and shaved for 
the occasion ; but, although a flush of excitement lit up 
his thin face, the ravages which illness had made in his 
appearance were very dreadfully apparent. His cheeks 
were hollow, his eyes cavernous, and his lower jaw 
seemed to have fallen a little away. He looked a good 
ten years older than his real age. Even the brilliant, 
flowery-patterned satin dressing-gown in which he had 
been wrapped, the spotless collar and cuffs, the glitter- 
ing diamond horseshoe pin in his satin scarf, only 

236 


A HARD LESSON. 


237 


served to make his decrepitude and infirmity more con- 
spicuous and more terrible. Helen, glancing at him as 
he was brought in, could not repress an involuntary 
shudder. She turned deadly pale; for a moment she 
tottered a little, and had to put out her hand to the 
edge of the table to steady herself, and all the while 
she felt that Sir Augustus’s cold and disapproving eyes 
were fixed upon her — with a scorn which almost 
amounted to disgust. 

It seemed to her for a moment that she could not go 
through with it— that she could not possibly bring her- 
self to sacrifice her youth and her happiness to this old 
man, who lay already, as the physician had told her, 
under the awful doom of a mortal disease. 

But in Helen’s mind there was only one alternative. 
A stronger nature than hers might have known how to 
strike clear from what in her eyes constituted a hope- 
less predicament. 

A woman with a greater knowledge of the world, 
coupled with a firmer self-reliance, would have seen her 
way to a better and wiser way out of her troubles. She 
would have said to herself that having that all- compell- 
ing power — the power of money — in her possession, it 
was possible to her to do all things — to cut the Gordian 
knot of her difficulties ; to face life alone and unaided ; 
to carve out a new career for herself ; to free herself 
from the meshes in which she was now entangled, and 
in short to make herself independent both of the 
schemes and the claims of those about her. 

But such vigorous measures did not lie within the 
scope of Helen’s yielding and somewhat timid nature. 
Courage with her was but an evanescent quality, not to 
be reckoned upon in an emergency. She had never 
been taught to be independent of others, and it did not 


238 


A HARD LESSON. 


occur to her that it would be possible to stand alone. 
She was of that essentially loving and clinging nature 
of which the tenderest wives and mothers are made, 
but which does not count for much in the composition 
of a heroine. She longed for affection — for the security 
of a home, and for the protection of some one whose 
right and whose pleasure it would be to shelter her 
safely against the coldness and the cruelty she had met 
with in the world. 

A natural and physical repulsion indeed made her 
tremble at this supreme crisis of her fate. When she 
looked at the bridegroom into whose arms fate seemed 
to have driven her, it was the shrinking of youth from 
age— the repugnance of May for December. Yet al- 
most immediately she overcame, these sensations, for 
she was sincerely attached to Lord Bainton. Moreover 
she reminded herself of the alternative. vShe thought 
about Frederick Warne and his repulsive priggishness, 
of his claims, of his threats to enforce them, and of her 
own powerlessness to repel him. When she remem- 
bered, on the other hand, a certain interview, not an 
hour since, with this other man who wished to make 
her his wife, his kindness, his affection, his ready 
acquiescence in all her requests, and his deep and 
unfeigned gratitude to her for her compliance with 
his wishes, her courage came back once more. 

“After all,” she said to herself, “I have no one else 
on earth but him. He loves me, and I am necessary to 
his happiness. No one else wants me, or cares whether 
I live or die; and if these men, the doctors and the 
lawyer, do believe me to be base and mercenary, what 
does that matter since he knows better, and we under- 
stand one another?” 

When the bath-chair reached her side Lord Bainton 


A HARD LESSON. 


239 


stretched out to her a withered, claw-like hand that 
seemed to be only half its normal size. She grasped it 
firmly and encouragingly in hers, and then, emboldened 
by this signal of love and confidence, she raised her 
head and met the physician’s eyes defiantly and bravely. 

“You do not understand,” those eyes seemed to say. 
“ You are suspicious and cruel.” 

But to Sir Augustus Rolls they failed to convey their 
message, and he only said to himself, “ Brazen-faced 
girl ! She glories in her shameful position. ” 

The clergyman, who for certain was no more in sym- 
pathy with her than the rest, coughed dryly behind his 
fingers as a sign that he was ready, and the service 
began. 

In a very few seconds — for, in consideration of the 
bridegroom’s strength, the formulary was as much 
abridged as possible — John Edward Ravenstroke had 
consented to take Helen Grace to his wedded wife, and 
almost inaudibly Helen Grace had in turn assented to 
take John Edward Ravenstroke to her wedded husband. 
Mr. Wright, who had stationed himself by her side, had 
given the bride away, and with the gold ring upon her 
finger they both once more in turn plighted their mar- 
riage vows. 

“ Till death us do part. ” The words rang out omi- 
nously and with an unusual solemnity into the silence 
of the room, and there was not one of those present who 
did not say in his heart — 

“ And how soon will not that be!” 

Perhaps the earl himself was the only one to whom 
the message of Death, inscribed so plainly to the eyes 
of the lookers-on upon his altered face, did not come 
home with an awful conviction. In him alone for one 
blissful moment joy and content absorbed all fears for 


240 


A HARD LESSON. 


the future — all terrors of that dread unknown that 
already had knocked at his door. 

As he held out his hands to his young wife upon the 
closing words of the service, and drew her face fondly 
down toward his own, he cried, joyfully — 

“Now I shall get well again! Now I shall soon be 
strong ! Thanks to you, my brave and noble darling ! 
Scarsdale,” turning suddenly to the lawyer, “ did you 
see about those diamonds from the bank? Are they 
here? Bring them at once — they are my wedding pres- 
ent to you, my love — give them to me quickly, that I 
may clasp them myself round Lady Bainton’s neck.” 

Helen turned a little paler still at the sound of her 
new name. Scarsdale was handing two large leather 
jewel-cases to the earl from a locked bag he had brought 
with him. Helen knelt down by the old man’s side, as 
with trembling hands he threw a magnificent necklace 
of diamonds about her neck, and placed a tiara in the 
shape of a coronet upon her dark hair. 

“ There ! Is she not handsome? My bride, my queen J M 
he exclaimed, in delight. “ Now let us get to lunch. 
Oh, yes, Rolls, I am going to lunch with you, of course. 
Don’t come preaching at me, if you please, on my 
wedding-day. Mr. Venner,” — to the clergyman who 
had married them — “ give Lady Bainton your arm, and 
conduct her into the adjoining room. Here, Wright, 
you walk by me. And you, gentlemen ” — turning to 
the others — “please to follow us. You must all be 
hungry, I am sure, and luncheon, I see, is quite ready.” 

The servants had flung open the doors between the 
two rooms, and stood in a line on either side, as the 
vicar, with Helen, all in the glitter of her diamonds 
— that looked strangely weird and out of place upon 
her dark stuff gown, and in the cold light of the winter 


A HARD LESSON. 


241 


day — passed out of one door and across to the other, 
where the luncheon lay spread upon the table. 

Just, however, as she reached the door of the other 
room there was a scream from one of the maids and a 
sudden rush behind her. She turned quickly round, 
just in time to see Lord Bainton falling back heavily in 
his chair, and the doctors hurrying to his assistance. 
With a cry she flew back again. The servants were 
running along the passage ; Sir Augustus was issuing 
authoritative orders ; the wheeled chair was shot back 
into the bedroom behind. 

“Go away, Lady Bainton,” said Sir Augustus, push- 
ing her roughly back ; “ you can do no good here — stand 
back.” 

“ I will not. I have a right to be here — it is my 
place. Oh, my God! is he dead?” 

For a moment it seemed indeed as though he were. 

He lay back perfectly lifeless, with closed eyes, and 
his face was of an ashen grayness. 

The doctors applied restoratives. Helen kept her 
place in holding one of the inanimate hands and chaf- 
ing it between her own, that were almost as cold and 
as numb. 

Sir Augustus did not tell her again to go away. 
Probably, even at this moment of painful anxiety, he 
had time to recognize the justice of her refusal, and to 
see that he had no right to banish a wife from her hus- 
band’s side. 

Presently he looked up at her across the lifeless man ; 
his hand was upon his heart. 

“ He is not dead,” he said to her, in a low voice, and 
with more deference than he had yet shown to her; 
“ his heart is beating again. It is one of the attacks he 
has had before — he will come to presently. Everything 
16 


242 


A HARD LESSON. 


depends upon keeping him quiet. If you will go in to 
your lunch, Lady Bainton, I will come to you as soon 
as I can leave him, and tell you how he is.” 

She obeyed him without a word. Mr. Scarsdale and 
Mr. Venner accompanied her. The servants made way 
for her to pass in awe-struck silence. The sick room 
was cleared of all but the doctors and necessary attend- 
ants, and the door was closed. Helen moved mechani- 
cally to the head of the table and sank down into a 
chair. As she did so she caught a passing glimpse of 
herself in the long mirror between the windows. The 
sight of her own pale and terrified face — her head still 
crowned with the tiara, her throat still encircled with 
the festooned clusters of priceless gems — struck a chill 
shock of horror through her heart. The mockery of it 
all — of her own appearance, and of the table before her 
laid out as for a feast, all decked with shining silver 
and glass, and crowded with dainty dishes that no one 
was there to eat ; with masses of hot-house flowers lying 
in long garlands among them; gorgeous purple and 
gold orchids, waxen-white stephanotis, sprays and deli- 
cate maidenhair fronds, with their tender greenery, all 
became to her all at once, no longer the emblems of a 
wedding feast, but of a tragedy — a tragedy of which 
she herself was the centre, the heroine. With a low 
cry of pain she put up her shaking hands to unclasp the 
jewels from her throat and hair. 

“ Help me, help me!” she cried piteously, turning to 
the clergyman who stood by her side, whilst her trem- 
bling fingers struggled vainly with the clasps and fast- 
enings of her ill-fated bridal gifts. “ Please — please 
help me to take them off. He is not here to see me, 
and I cannot wear them any longer. They hurt me so. 
Oh! they hurt me.” 


A HARD LESSON. 


243 


Mr. Venner — although he, like the rest, believed that 
she had sold herself from the basest of motives to a 
dying man — could not in common humanity refuse her 
his assistance, nor could he refrain as he did so from 
speaking a few kindly commonplaces. He murmured 
some not very coherent sentences about the earl’s 
probable recovery and her own need of strength and 
patience. 

There was little enough in the words. In his own 
ears, indeed, they sounded cold and unsympathetic, for 
the circumstances were exceptional, and the good man 
hardly knew what to say ; but the poor child was so 
utterly lonely and wretched that, with an unexpected 
gush of gratitude which considerably surprised him, she 
turned to him impulsively, and placed her small, ice- 
cold hands in his. 

“Oh, thank you — thank you!” she exclaimed bro- 
kenly. “How kind, how good you are tome!” And 
then, covering her face with her hands, she burst into 
a passion of helpless tears. 

It seemed to her, indeed, as if life could never hold 
again so terrible an hour as this. 

Alas ! the day had more sorrowful things yet still in 
store for her. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


Mr. Venner, who in truth had only spoken because 
he had thought himself compelled to do so, who was in 
no way conscious of having shown any kindness or 
goodness toward Helen, was suddenly touched. Her 
weakness, her tears, and her little child-like appeal for 
help moved him strangely. 

Mr. Venner had daughters of his own. One of them, 
not much older than this unhappy girl, had been mar- 
ried only two years ago. He remembered her wedding 
as if it had been only yesterday. 

The crowded rooms ; the happy faces ; the smiles and 
the merry laughter; the good wishes of friends and 
relations, and all the heartfelt blessings and congratula- 
tions which had been showered upon the radiant bride 
and her proud young husband, on that day of all the days 
of a woman’s life — her marriage morning. 

And this bride— with her white and woebegone face, 
tearing the jewels from her hair and neck, with no mother 
to smile upon her, no father to bless, no crowd of friends 
to press about her, and wish her joy — this bride was 
all alone among strangers, while her new-made husband 
lay half-dead in an adjoining room. 

What a horrible contrast it was to that other marriage 
scene ! 

In silence he helped her to unfasten her jewels, and 
the shining stones slipped down in a heap with a little 
rustling clatter on the table between them. 

Lady Bainton never wore the family diamonds again. 

244 


A HARD LESSON. 


245 


“You ought to have something to eat,” said Mr. Ven- 
ner kindly. “What is the use of giving way? You 
will want all your strength.” 

She sat down to the table. “You are quite right. 
I will eat and drink. Perhaps if I am strong and brave 
I shall be allowed to help presently to nurse him. ” 

They gave her some wine, and put some food upon 
her plate. The others sat down, too, and for a few min- 
utes there was a little pretence made on all sides. Prob- 
ably neither Venner nor Scarsdale had much appetite, 
but they ate to encourage Helen, and she swallowed a 
few mouthfuls and gulped down the sherry in her glass 
in order to please and satisfy them. 

The refreshment, however, undoubtedly revived and 
restored her, for she had been almost faint from all the 
varied emotions of the morning. 

A little color stole back into her pale face, and she 
found herself better able to control the tears which had 
for a moment threatened to become hysterical. 

Presently Sir Augustus came in to report that the earl 
was conscious and decidedly better. 

Helen sprang up eagerly and begged to be allowed to 
be of use ; but he told her that she must, on no account, 
go into the room. It was essential that the patient 
should be kept quiet and free from agitation. 

“ I have given him a draught which I hope will give 
him some sleep. Mrs. Hogan, the nurse, is a very capa- 
ble person, and I have given her full directions. No- 
body else need go into the room. Mr. Wright is gone 
now, but he will return in about an hour’s time, and I 
will look in again this evening. If I should be required 
before then the nurse knows where to telegraph. Good 
evening, Lady Bainton.” 

And with a bow the great man hurried away. 


246 


A HARD LESSON. 


The other two gentlemen rose almost immediately to 
take their departure. The clergyman wished her good- 
by with kind and pitying eyes. “ If you should want 
a friend,” he said, as he held her hand — “ it may perhaps 
be presumption on my part, Lady Bainton, to suppose 
that you stand in need of friends — ” 

“Oh, indeed,” she interrupted quickly, “I do need 
friends. I have not one in the whole world, save Lord 
Bainton. ” 

“ Is that so? Then count on me, my dear young lady, 
if there is anything that I can do for you. Here is my 
card ; send for me if you want me at any hour of the 
day or night. I will come at once.” 

He pressed her hand once more, and left her, and as 
he went out of the house Mr. Venner said to himself as 
he was walking rapidly away through Portman Square 
toward his own house: “After all, I was mistaken. 
That woman is not what I supposed her to be. She is 
neither, base nor mercenary. She is only unhappy. 
She has had a history. There is more in the story of 
that marriage than is to be seen on the surface of it.” 

And all day long he was haunted by memories of 
those pathetic gray eyes, and by the vision of that pale 
woman tearing off her shining diamonds with a sort 
of panic of despair. 

After he was gone, Mr. Scarsdale, too, rose to take 
leave of her. 

With a little deprecatory cough and averted eyes, he 
said — 

“You are perhaps aware, Lady Bainton, that the earl 
signed his new will this morning in my presence?” 

Helen bent her head in assent. 

“ Perhaps I should mention that that will is in my 
possession, I do not approve of it — it is in my opinion 


247 


A HARD LESSON. 

an iniquitous will — but since my remonstrances to you 
have had apparently no effect — ” 

“ Do you not think that it is singularly bad taste on 
your part, Mr. Scarsdale, to discuss this subject in 
my presence?” said Helen, moving away coldly from 
him. 

“ My dear lady, business is business ! and alas ! in the 
midst of life we are in death! When Lord Bainton 
recovers himself sufficiently, I wish to urge upon you 
the duty of suggesting a modification of this most 
unfair disposition of his property, and of sending for 
me without delay to put things upon a more equitable 
basis.” 

Helen smiled a little scornfully. The detestable 
motives with which this conventionally-minded little 
lawyer accredited her would almost have amused her, 
had she been in a mood to be amused. 

Perhaps he did not know that she had money — more 
than enough — of her own. Certainly he did not know 
how every day that she lived she realized more and 
more how little happiness her money had brought to 
her, and how utterly its false and transient promises 
had failed her. Why should this man imagine that she 
wanted Lord Bainton’ s fortune? What had she ever 
done to deserve such a cruel suspicion? 

Yet she could not explain herself to him ; neither 
would she condescend to make a certain revelation to 
him of recent events which would place her in a totally 
different light in his eyes. She was too proud to do 
that, and, moreover, her tongue was sealed. She 
remained silent. 

“ Your husband is, very ill, Lady Bainton,” said Mr. 
Scarsdale again, after a brief pause. “ It is my duty 
to tell you that if he were to die without having 


24 & 


A HARD LESSON. 


repaired the wrong he has done to his sister and his 
nephew, I should most decidedly advise Lady Camilla 
Greyson to dispute the will on the score of undue 
influence. ” 

“ My influence?” inquired Helen, turning round upon 
him sharply, with a heightened color. 

Mr. Scarsdale bowed. “ Certainly; I mean your 
influence, madam,” rejoined the lawyer, also with some 
show of temper, “ exerted upon a man so weakened and 
reduced by illness as to be physically in an unfit con- 
dition to resist the unscrupulous plans of a scheming 
woman.” 

Then Helen lost her temper in downright earnest. 
She spoke only one word, but that word was spoken 
with an unmistakable energy, and accompanied by a 
gesture as decided as it was swift. 

She lifted her arm straight from the shoulder and 
pointed to the door. 

“Go!” she said, with flashing eyes and shortened 
breath. And Mr. Scarsdale, with a small and evil 
smile, obeyed her and went. 

Directly she was alone Helen flew across the passage 
to the door of her husband’s room. Stooping down till 
her ear was on a level with the keyhole, she listened 
breathlessly for a few moments at the door. There was 
not a sound to be heard within ; indeed, the loud beats 
of her own heart almost prevented her from hearing 
anything else. 

After a few seconds she turned the handle of the door 
as noiselessly as possible, and crept softly into the 
darkened room. 

Mrs. Hogan, the nurse, who sat at the foot of the 
bed, rose with an outstretched hand to bar her entrance, 
but on seeing who she was a natural feeling prompted 


A HARD LESSON. 249 

her to withdraw her opposition. She made a sign to 
her to come forward quietly. 

“ My lord is better, my lady,” she whispered in her 
ear. “ I think he is dozing. ” 

Helen went quickly to a heavy oaken bureau which 
stood in a corner of the room, opened a side drawer 
and took out of it a folded paper ; then taking a pen 
and a small ink-bottle in her other hand, she said in 
a hurried whisper to the nurse, who had watched 
her proceedings suspiciously, “ It is necessary that 
Lord Bainton should sign this paper. You must rouse 
him up. ” 

“ Oh, my lady ! I would not do such a thing for 
worlds. What ! awake him now, just as he has taken a 
composing draught and is dozing off! Why, a sleep 
may be his salvation. I could not do it — indeed, I could 
hot!” 

“Look here, nurse; I tell you, you must” answered 
Helen firmly. And then she took her arm and drew 
her away behind the screen that sheltered the door, so 
that nothing she said could possibly reach the sick 
man’s ears. “ Nurse, you know as well as the doctors 
do, that Lord Bainton has an incurable disease.” 

“ Oh, my lady, there is always hope whilst there is 
life.” 

“ Never mind. You know that in all human proba- 
bility Lord Bainton cannot live many months — more 
than that, that he might very possibly die at any mo- 
ment. Is it not so?” 

“ I sadly fear. I should not like to distress you by 
saying so, my lady. ” 

“ This is not a time to think of my distress,” answered 
Helen, whose face was strangely flushed and excited. 
“It is a question of a great wrong to be redressed; a 


2 5 O 


A HARD LESSON. 


mistake to be set right — something which, by signing 
his name to this paper which I wrote at his dictation 
this morning — Lord Bainton will do an action of justice. 
If he dies without signing it the evil will be irrepara- 
ble. I am determined that he shall sign it. Now, do 
you understand me? There is no time like the present. 
Very soon Mr. Wright will come back, and he will 
drive me out of the room. His lordship is calm. The 
little doze he is having will have refreshed him. Who 
can tell how long this gleam of improvement may last, 
or how soon he may become unconscious once more? 
Now go and rouse him up fully. I am his wife ; I have 
a right to give you orders. If you do not obey me I 
shall discharge you.” 

Mrs. Hogan was unable to withstand so direct an 
appeal to her self-interest. She protested feebly, it is 
true; but she went to the bedside, all the same, to 
execute Lady Bainton’ s orders, and lifted the invalid a 
little upon his pillow. Lord Bainton opened his eyes, 
and as they fell upon his wife a smile of pleasure over- 
spread his face. 

“Ah, Helen!” he murmured, holding out his feeble 
hands to her. “ This is a sad wedding day for you, my 
dear. But I am better — much better. I shall cheat 
the doctors yet. ” 

Then Mrs. Hogan, at a sign from her, retired into the 
further room. 

“You are feeling really better, dear Lord Bainton?” 
asked Helen, as she bent over him. 

“Yes, dear; much better.” 

“ Then I want you just to sign the paper that I wrote 
out, ” and she placed the pen in his fingers. “ Please try ; 
it will not take long to write your name. See, I will 
hold the paper for you and guide your hand. ” 


A HARD LESSON. 25 1 

rt Oh, child, there is no hurry. Why do you care so 
much about it?” 

“You have promised me, remember.” 

“Yes, a foolish promise. Let it be — let it be. She 
deserves nothing at my hands — she treated you badly. 
Let her suffer her punishment.” 

“Do not let us argue it all over again,” said Helen 
gently. “You know that I can never be happy unless 
it is done — never.” 

He took the pen in his hand, holding it doubtfully for 
a moment, then he glanced up at her suddenly. 

“ You have made it clear about the six months?” 

“ Quite clear. It is exactly as you said it should be.” 

“And you will keep your promise to me? For six 
months from the day of my death you will not speak of 
this second will of mine to a living creature. You 
will allow the will which Scarsdale has, and by which 
I have left you everything, to come into operation, and 
you will make no sign. Swear it to me once more.” 

“ I swear it to you.” 

“Very well, then, it shall be as you wish. But re- 
member that I consider it foolish and Quixotic of you to 
insist upon it, and but for that redeeming clause about 
the six months, which will at any rate give my sister 
some sort of retribution for her cruelty, I would not 
sign it at all.” He lifted his hand with difficulty and 
Helen guided it into the right place. 

It was at this precise moment that Mrs. Hogan, de- 
voured by that curiosity which has been the curse of 
her sex since the foundation of the world, crept back 
softly through the open doorway from the dressing-room, 
and stood listening behind the tall screen. 

“ Remember,” said Lord Bainton, in a distinct voice, 
“ It is you that makes me do this. I have no wish to 


252 


A HARD LESSON. 


alter things. I am signing this codicil only under 
strong pressure.” 

Then there was a second of silence, and immediately 
Lady Bainton called out — 

“ Nurse!” Mrs. Hogan came quickly forward, and 
Helen desired her to summon a housemaid, so that 
they might both sign their names as witnesses to the 
document. 

When this was done Helen sealed up the paper in a 
long envelope, and carried it away safely to her own 
room upstairs. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


It was evening. The doctors had come and gone for 
the last time that day, and had pronounced their patient 
to be decidedly better. The prescribed sleeping 
draught had been administered to him, and he had sunk 
into a heavy slumber. The house was in profound 
silence, and Helen sat alone by the fireside in the little 
morning-room, half-way up the stairs, which she pre- 
ferred to any of the great handsome reception-rooms 
downstairs, in their ghostly loneliness that oppressed her 
by their size and their emptiness. 

It was, at any rate, cosy enough in this little square 
room with the red curtains and the warm fire glow, the 
table with the shaded lamp upon it drawn up before 
the hearthrug, and the comfortable arm-chair in the 
chimney corner. 

Mrs. Sims had brought her a little repast here upon a 
tray, for Davis had asked to go out, and she almost 
preferred to be waited upon by the motherly house- 
keeper. The meal did not occupy her long, and after 
it was over, and the tray had been removed, she found 
herself a book and drew the big arm-chair close in to the 
fire and pretended to read. 

It was a poor pretence after all, for her brain was busy 
with teeming thoughts. What she had done — now that 
it was done beyond recall — made her deeply anxious. 
On the whole she did not regret her marriage ; it had 
at any rate given her a home and a right to remain 
where she was. It had given her, too, a position and 


254 


A HARD LESSON. 


security from insult. She was safe now in Lord Bain- 
ton’s house; his name was a shield and a protection to 
her, and, ill though he was, not one of her enemies 
could reach her or molest her so long as she remained 
under his roof. And she had made him happy, too. 
It had been a sick man’s fancy to make her his wife, 
and in doing so she had made him the only return for 
his goodness that was in her power. From the bottom 
of her heart she prayed that his life might be prolonged, 
if only for a few months, so that she might prove her 
gratitude to him by her loving devotion. That he 
should be doomed to die made her very sad indeed; 
but, sad as it was, the thought that it might lie in her 
power to render his last days on earth happy, filled her 
with a deep sense of thankfulness. 

As she sat on by herself, reviewing her position, and 
turning all these thoughts over in her mind, the distant 
ringing of the door-bell hardly caught her ears, and did 
not suffice to arrest her attention. It was only when the 
door opened behind her, and a timid voice began, “ If 
you please, my lady,” she realized that the bell meant 
something or some one had come to break in upon her 
solitude. A housemaid stood in the doorw;ay. 

“ If you please, my lady, there is a gentleman who 
has called to see you.” 

“A gentleman? Did you open the door to him, 
Jane?” 

“ Yes, my lady. Mr. Davis being out, James has just 
run across to the post for a minute, and Mr. Williams, 
the valet, has gone to the chemist for something, as the 
nurse sent down to say she required. So there was no 
one but me to answer the door.” 

“ Never mind about that,” said Helen, cutting short 
these elaborate apologies for the defaulting men- 


A HARD LESSON. 255 

servants. “ Who is the gentleman? and have you ad- 
mitted him?” 

“ He would not give his name, my lady, and he is 
waiting in the hall.” 

“ You should have told him that Lord Bainton is very 
ill, and that visitors are not received at present. ” 

“So I did, my lady, but he wouldn’t take no denial, 
and just stepped past me into the hall and said, ‘Go and 
tell Miss Dacre that a gentleman desires to see her on a 
matter of great importance. ’ He did not know, in 
course, that you was not Miss Dacre any longer, and I 
was going on to explain it to him, but he stopped me 
quite angry-like and says he, ‘Go at once and tell her, 
girl, and don’t stop here talking. ’” 

Jane did not think it necessary to add that the gentle- 
man had given her a sovereign to expedite matters. 

Helen rose slowly to her feet. Without a doubt it 
was Frederick Warne come back once more to persecute 
her with his odious pretensions. For the second time he 
had forced his way into Lord Bainton ’s house, and had 
insisted upon seeing her in spite of the efforts of the 
servants to refuse him admittance. 

Well, she feared him no longer. He was powerless 
now. His threats and his entreaties were alike defeated. 
He could not bring his old aunt to taunt her with the 
unseemliness of her position, or to flout her for 
immodesty if she refused to go back with her to the 
shelter of Aberdare House ; neither could he hold over 
her head those vague terrors of scandal and of public 
exposure by which, in hinting at an action of breach 
of promise, he had hitherto been able to strike abso- 
lute terror into her mind. 

A sense of triumph came to her. She had outwitted 
him ; she could turn the tables on him now, for was she 


256 


A HARD LESSON. 


not an honored wife in her husband’s house? How 
small and mean and humble he would feel when he 
learnt the truth from her lips ! 

Her courage rose ; there was a bright spot of color 
burning in either cheek, and her eyes glittered with a 
certain eagerness as she bade the girl go and bring the 
gentleman up. 

“ I will see him here, ” she said, with decision. “ Ask 
him to come upstairs. ” And then she waited, standing 
with her back to the fireplace and her face toward the 
door. 

Two or three minutes passed away. Helen, in her 
impatience for the triumph she anticipated, found them 
long. She wanted to repay him for all the annoyance 
he had caused her — to see his self-satisfied face change 
and fall as she made known her great news to him. 
How slowly the minutes went by! 

The clock ticked behind her ; the coals fell in a little 
crash, and the flames leapt merrily up the chimney. 
Then at last the door was thrown widely open, and a 
man came in out of the gloom of the dimly lit staircase 
and landing. 

Two paces into the room ; and by the time the retreat- 
ing Jane had closed the door again softly, the visitor 
stood close before her full in the warm light of the 
lamp and the fire. 

Helen uttered a smothered cry, and fell back, clutch- 
ing at the mantelshelf behind her. All the bright color 
vanished from her face, leaving her deadly pale, and a 
cold faintness almost overpowered her ; foV the man who 
stood before her was not Frederick Warne. It was Gil- 
bert Nugent! 

Nugent, who had parted with her in anger because she 
had told him a lie — who had sworn never to see her 


A HARD LESSON. 


257 


again — who had left her to despair and utter hopeless- 
ness, and whose harshness and cruelty had driven her 
into making a wreck of her whole life ! 

“Oh, no, no!” she wailed incoherently at the sight 
of him, and then she cowered and bent her head, hiding 
her face in her hands that she might not see him, whom 
she still loved so dearly, and so hopelessly. 

“ I have frightened you, Helen ! I have come too 
suddenly. Oh ! forgive me, my dear one, and look up — 
look up — let me see your sweet face once more — let me 
hear you say that you will forgive me!” 

He came eagerly forward with outstretched hands; 
he took her shrinking, trembling form into his arms, 
and would have drawn her to his heart, but she pushed 
him roughly away. 

“Oh, you must go! — you must go!” she gasped. 
“You must not stay here — oh! — I never thought that 
it could be you. Go — I entreat you!” 

Her face was white and drawn, and there was positive 
anguish in her dark eyes as they looked up into his, 
pushing him away from her as she did so with her 
feeble little hands. But Nugent had come to her full 
of new hopes and resolutions, and he was not to be so 
easily repulsed. 

“ Why am I to go, pray? Is your heart so hard against 
me, darling, that you cannot forgive me — though I 
come to you a penitent and deeply humble man? I am 
here to own myself in the wrong — to tell you that I do 
not believe you to have been so much to blame as I 
was ; for if you lied to me I, on my part, was — God 
knows — utterly unworthy of you. But now I have 
thought it all over. I have realized the error of my 
life, and I have resolved to err no more, I have written 
to her — to Dora, I have freed myself, and to free m y* 


A HARD LESSON. 


258 

self still more effectually I am going abroad at once for 
three whole years — so that in the days to come no 
shadow of my disgrace may rest for a moment on the 
pure and stainless heart of her I still am bold enough to 
hope some day to win. 

“ But before I go I have come to bid you farewell, 
and to plead, not only for your forgiveness, but for that 
love which you have told me I have been so fortunate 
as once to win. Will you forgive me, dearest? Will 
you give me back your love, even as I give you back 
my faith and trust? And you are young: dare I ask 
you to wait for me till I come home again — to wait 
here, in your guardian’s house and under his care, till 
time and absence have purified my life and rendered me 
less unfit to plead for the gift of your hand from him?” 

She heard him to the end. She was powerless to stem 
the current of his eager words. She could not speak. 
A horrible numbness overpowered her, mentally and 
physically. It was as though death itself had laid its 
icy grip upon her. At last a long, miserable moan 
broke from her white lips, and, eluding the grasp of his 
eager hands, she slipped down upon the chair behind 
her, and shivered from head to foot. 

In an instant he was kneeling by her side, kissing her 
cold hands with all a lover’s intensity. “ What is it, 
my own — my love? Why do you turn from me? And 
why are you so cold and so trembling? Is it possible 
that in so short a time you have ceased to care for me ; 
or have I sinned past forgiveness, and can you not for- 
get my offence? But you shall prove me — put me to 
the test. You shall see how faithfully I will love you, 
how patiently I will wait for you.” 

“Oh, hush, hush!” she cried brokenly and wildly. 


A HARD LESSON. 


259 


“You must not speak to me like that. Oh! if you 
knew — if you only knew ! 

For the first time a little uneasiness crept into his 
mind. 

“ What is it?” he asked, looking at her curiously. 
“ What is there to know ; and why do you turn away 
from me?” 

For she had twisted herself away into the corner of 
the deep arm-chair, hiding her face in the satin 
cushions, so that he could only see the dark head, with 
its masses of soft, disordered hair. 

“ I don’t quite understand, Helen, darling. Are you 
in any fresh trouble, or are you angry with me — too 
angry to speak to me? Or — but the servant told me that 
Lord Bainton was very ill. I hardly heard her; but, 
of course, that is your trouble. You are very anxious 
and unhappy about the poor old man.” 

And then, driven desperate by these guesses and 
surmises, Helen sat up, pushed the thick locks back 
from her damp brow, and faced the man she loved so 
deeply, but whom by her own deeds she had lost for- 
ever — faced him with such an agony of despair in her 
haggard eyes and white, drawn lips as told him at last 
that here indeed was some terrible trouble — something 
quite above and beyond anything he could possibly 
divine or imagine. 

“ I must tell you the truth,” she gasped. “ I cannot 
let you go in ignorance. I have done what will make 
you hate and despise me, what will debase and degrade 
me forever in your eyes, and will show you how bad 
and vile and wicked a thing I must be.” 

“Oh, Helen! for God’s sake do not say such terrible 
things ! How can you be ever degraded or debased to 


26 o 


A HARD LESSON. 


me? Are you not my dream, my ideal, my pearl 
amongst women — my own dear, dear love?” 

“ No; I am not your love. I never can be your love. 
I am nothing to you — nothing ; for I was married to 
Lord Bainton this morning, ” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


Dora Torrington sat alone on the corner of her bed 
in her own room at Old Park. 

An open letter which the morning’s post had brought 
to her was in her hand. She was not looking at it; 
her eyes were fixed blankly upon the window, and upon 
the dreary winter landscape without. But she saw 
nothing of it. 

What she saw was only the wreck and ruin of a mis- 
spent and evil life — only the husks of a wasted exist- 
ence, and the bitter fruits of ill-regulated and unlawful 
desires. 

It was all over now ! Her victim had escaped her, her 
dupe had shaken himself free ; he was going away, he 
said — away to New Zealand. 

Fool that she had been not to see that some day his 
manhood would awaken, and his independence assert 
itself ! At any moment in all these long years he might 
have broken loose in this way, might have made a stand 
in this fashion, against which she could do nothing. 
For she could not go to New Zealand after him ; she 
had not the effrontery; and, worse than that, she had 
not the money. 

That was where the shoe chiefly pinched her. She 
was poor — she was hampered by debts — she was wor- 
ried out of her life by creditors. And yet she would 
have counted it all for nothing if she could have kept 
Gilbert Nugent. 

“ Heaven knows I was not mercenary in my love for 
261 


262 


A HARD LESSON. 


him,” said the wretched woman to herself, as the mis- 
erable tears coursed one by one down her cheeks, 
making suspicious little streaks on their pink surface. 
“ I loved him for himself. I wanted him for my own, 
just because I have never seen anybody like him ; no- 
body half so handsome, so popular — so clever. I have 
put up with all his fancies and whims, his flirtations 
with other women, his bad tempers to myself. And 
after all these years, this is the reward I get — he takes 
himself off to the other side of the world, and says he 
means to stop there till the three years of our compact 
are over, and he is free to come home and marry some 
one else. Well, it might be worse, for he might have 
married that wretched girl Helen Dacre. That would 
have driven me mad ; but, thank goodness, I was suc- 
cessful in putting him out of conceit with her! My little 
plan answered perfectly — he will never have anything 
to say to her again. If I lose him, she at least does 
not gain him ; that is something to be thankful for, 
anyhow.” 

At this moment she heard Lady Camilla’s voice call- 
ing to her loudly. 

“Dora, Dora! where are you? Come here at once, 
I want you. ” 

Dora dashed the bitter tears out of her hard, steely- 
blue eyes as she rose quickly to respond to the summons. 

Slipping the letter into her pocket, she went hastily 
out of her room, and met Lady Camilla rushing upstairs 
with such consternation and dismay in her face as made 
her instantly perceive that something very serious was 
the matter. 

“What is it, Camilla? What has happened?” she 
cried, running toward her. Naturally her thoughts 
flew to Ted. Had he met with an accident at Eton? 


A HARD LESSON. 


263 


Been stamped upon at football, or had his eye knocked 
out by a fives ball? Surely nothing short of this could 
account for Lady Camilla’s terrible appearance! She 
was purple in the face, her eyes stared wildly out of her 
head, and she struggled for breath. Dora felt per- 
suaded that she was on the verge of a fit of some kind. 

“ What is it? What is it?” she cried again, and Lady 
Camilla, thrusting out a .newspaper, and, pointing to it 
with a shaking forefinger, managed, in a half asphyx- 
iated whisper, to ejaculate — 

“ Read this! — read this!” 

Dora took the Times from her trembling hands and 
read as follows : 

“On the 23d inst., by special license, at 52 Portman 
Square, by the Rev. Charles Venn£r, rector of the parish 
of St. Matthew, John Howard Edward Ravenstoke, 
sixth Earl of Bainton, to Helen, only child of the late 
Colonel Dacre, of her Majesty’s Royal Irish Fusiliers.” 

“Great heavens!” ejaculated Mrs. Torrington in a 
voice of utter amazement, “ Great heavens above!” and 
then suddenly she dropped down upon an oak chest 
upon the landing behind her, and laughed and laughed 
till she could not speak for laughter ! 

Lady Camilla, with rage and indignation boiling 
within her, stood there glaring at her. Somehow this 
unseemly mirth restored her a little to herself, and 
when the widow’s paroxsyms began to subside, she 
found voice to say to her with a certain angry dignity— 

“ I fail to see the reason of your amusement. What 
are you laughing at, pray?” 

“ Oh, my dear Camilla ! Pray, pray, pray forgive me ! 
Really, I positively cannot help myself; it’s too, too, 
unspeakably funny!” 


264 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ What is funny? That I should be absolutely ruined, 
and the hopes of my whole life, and all Ted’s prospects, 
blasted and ruined by the unprincipled machinations 
of a vile and miserable adventuress?” 

“ Oh no, my dear ! Heaven knows I feel sorry enough 
for you; it’s horrible! But, really, when I come to 
think of that girl, and how clever she has been, and 
how completely she had outwitted you — it does make me 
laugh to see what perfect fools you and I, who thought 
ourselves so wise, have been in her hands ! I positively 
can’t help admiring her!” 

“ It’s all very well for you, Dora,” said Lady Camilla 
impatiently and angrily. “ Of course, you can afford 
to laugh ; it’s not you who suffer by this. I should like 
to know, my dear, what you would have said if the 
wretch had run away and married Gilbert Nugent 
instead of my poor brother. She might have done that 
quite as easily. ” 

“ Oh, no, my dear, she mightn’t. I took good care of 
that. I played my cards too carefully. You should 
have looked after her better. Why did you go bullying 
her and tormenting her that evening, when she was ill 
in bed, till you frightened her to running away to Lord 
Bainton for protection? You ought not to have let her 
out of your sight that night. You ought to have 
dressed her with your own hands like a mother and 
brought her downstairs with you, and kept your eye 
upon her, and coaxed and petted her till you had per- 
suaded her into being civil to that man Warne, — instead 
of which you left her all by herself and scolded her till 
she got desperate and escaped on the sly from the 
house.” 

“What is the use of going all over that again? I 
know I made a mistake, but who could have imagined 


A HARD LESSON. 


265 


that I should be punished in such a cruel and horrible 
manner? Who could suppose that meek-looking girl 
could turn out to be such a viper? Such a monster! 
Such a perfect fiend!” 

“ I can’t think now how she has managed this mar- 
riage. Why, Bainton was ill in bed, you heard only 
yesterday. ” 

“ That is how it has been done, depend upon it. He 
is ill still, no doubt. You see the marriage was cele- 
brated in the house — not in a church. She has got over 
him whilst he was weak and ill ; trumped up some story ; 
played upon his feelings, I dare say. ” 

“ Oh, his feelings didn’t require much playing upon, 
my dear. I always told you that Bainton was spooney 
on her; only you were so blind you wouldn’t see it.” 

“ Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!” wailed Lady Ca- 
milla, wringing her hands piteously. “ What will 
become of my poor Ted? His future will be ruined!” 

“You can’t be sure of that. Your brother may per- 
haps not alter his will,” said the widow, with an at- 
tempt at consolation. 

“ Oh, trust the creature for that. It will be the very 
first thing she will see to, of course. She ought to be 
hung. Such crimes'deserve capital punishment.” 

“Well, failing hanging her, which I’m afraid, under 
the existing laws of this country, isn’t feasible, what 
steps do you propose to take?” 

“I’m going up to town, of course.” 

“What, to Portman Square?” 

“ Of course not. To Lincoln’s Inn. I have already 
sent off a telegram to Mr. Scarsdale. I shall go to his 
chambers and consult him. ” 

“ And Tom, is he going with you?” 

“ Tom is perfectly brutal to me ! Like you, he 


266 


A HARD LESSON. 


laughs — positively laughs — and says that Ted must take 
his chance, like other boys. He thinks, as you do, that 
Helen Dacre is cleverer than we have any of us given 
her credit for being. And what is more, he declares 
that the hunting is so nearly over that nothing will in- 
duce him to give up even one day and go up to town 
with me. Oh, men are selfish brutes!” 

“ So they are, dear. No doubt at all about that. We 
women all find it out in time, and I became aware of 
the fact a great many years ago. Well, Camilla, as 
Tom won’t go to London with you, I have a mind to — 
that is, if you will pay my expenses.” 

“ Oh, of course, Dora. And certainly — unkind as you 
are to me — you will be better than nobody. I can at 
any rate talk out to you. ” 

“ Thanks, dearest. How nice you are ; and who shall 
say that men have the sole monopoly of selfishness? 
Oh, my dear, don’t protest — no polite lies between 
you and me, please — we understand each other too 
thoroughly! And I am not going to pretend that I 
want to go to London with you merely in order to con- 
sole and comfort you. I have got my own reasons, too, 
for wanting to go to town. I don’t mind telling you 
that I also have had bad news this morning. Read this 
letter,” and she pulled Nugent’s epistle out of her 
pocket. 

It was now Lady Camilla’s turn to laugh. 

“ Escaped you after all, has he?” 

“ Not yet. He hasn’t started yet.” 

“ And you want to see him and alter his decision, I 
suppose?” 

“ Certainly. I mean to do my best to prevent his 
taking himself off to the antipodes. ” 

“Ah, well, my dear Dora,” remarked Lady Camilla 


A HARD LESSON. 


267 


sententiously, as she folded up the letter and returned 
it to her. “ If you take my advice you will let him go. 
It would be infinitely better for you if this somewhat 
discreditable alliance were broken off. I have always 
told you, you know, that I don’t approve of it, neither 
does Tom. It is a disgraceful sort of affair altogether, 
and does not redound at all to the advantage of your 
reputation. ” 

“ Now stop that nonsense at once, Camilla!” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Torrington, with a heightened color. 
“ The idea of your preaching morals to me is positively 
sickening! Neither you nor I can afford to pose to each 
other as saints — we know each other too well. We are 
both of us sinners — the only difference between us be- 
ing that, whereas I am a sinner openly, avowedly, and 
honestly, you are one masked and disguised by hy- 
pocrisy and cant. What train are you going by, if you 
please? If you will tell me, I shall be quite ready to 
start in good time. ” 

Lady Camilla made a sulky rejoinder as to the pro- 
posed time of her departure, and Mrs. Torrington, 
leaving her to digest her remarks as she chose, went 
back into her own room to make her preparations for 
the journey to town. 

The two ladies travelled up to London by an after- 
noon train. Harmony had been restored between 
them. No good could accrue to either of them by a 
continuation of hostilities, and both were aware that 
to quarrel would be fatal to their mutual aims and 
interests. 

They discussed the situation amicably and sympa- 
thetically together during the first half of the journey. 
Then, at the junction, midway to St. Pancras, an un- 
foreseen interruption to their conversation occurred. 


268 


A HARD LESSON. 


The first-class carriage which they had hitherto had 
to themselves was invaded by a fellow-traveller, who 
entered with much commotion, ushered in by guard 
and porters, and followed by numerous rugs, bags, and 
newspapers, that were handed in in succession by his 
man-servant. 

The intruder was a stout, middle-aged, little man, 
with very red hair and an exceedingly long and narrow 
nose. His eyes, of a pale color, were set rather close 
together, and his mouth and chin, covered by a 
yellowish red beard and mustache, seemed to retreat 
altogether into the warm recesses of the fur collar of his 
remarkably handsome coat. 

When the train had gone on again, and he had 
arranged a cloth rug embroidered with a large blue and 
gold monogram, and lined with dark fur, to his satis- 
faction across his knees, he looked up and met the 
wholly uninterested eyes of Mrs. Torrington, who hap- 
pened to be seated opposite him. 

No sooner had he looked at her than he appeared to 
be very much struck with her. Dora wore a smart little 
green felt hat, and a remarkably well-fitting cloth 
jacket. Her fair hair and delicate complexion con- 
trasted becomingly with her wintry garments. The 
gentleman in the other fur coat considered her atten- 
tively — so attentively, in fact, that Dora dropped her 
eyes modestly upon her book. Presently — not perhaps 
without a purpose — she put up her hand to the leather 
strap to alter the height of the window. The stranger 
with the foxlike appearance sprang eagerly to his feet. 

“ Allow me?” he cried, with alacrity, seizing the strap 
out of her small hand. “ Would you like it entirely 
up?” he inquired politely. 

“ Thanks — not quite — just to the last hole,” replied 


A HARD LESSON. 269 

Mrs. Torrington, with the sweetest smile. “ That will 
do nicely.” 

Upon this introduction they entered into conversation. 
The weather and the unpunctuality of the train service 
formed the opening topics. From thence they passed 
easily to London — its theatres, its picture-galleries, its 
sights of all kinds. 

Incidentally the stranger mentioned that he had lately 
given six thousand pounds for two small but exquisite 
sketches of Turner’s at a recent sale at Christie and 
Manson’s. He mentioned it airily and lightly, as one 
who was accustomed to deal in thousands. 

Dora Torrington pricked up her ears — that is to say, 
she smiled more seraphically than ever. She said 
enthusiastically that she adored pictures, especially 
Turner’s pictures, and would give anything on earth to 
see this particular pair of pictures. 

Whereat Lady Camilla smiled sardonically to herself 
behind the shelter of her World. 

The train was just slackening its speed into the ter- 
minus, and the stranger immediately entreated his fair 
neighbor effusively to come to his London house and 
see his picture-gallery. Then, ere he wished her adieu, 
he took out his card from a silver card-case and pre- 
sented it to her. 

Upon it was inscribed — 

“ Mr. Onesimus Bloggs, 264 Cromwell Road.” 

He entreated to know his charmer’s name in return. 
Mrs. Torrington produced her card. 

“And will you not bring Mr. Torrington with you?” 
inquired Mr. Bloggs, blandly studying the card through 
his eye-glass. 

“Alas! I am a widow !” sighed Dora in her xuost 
pathetic style. 


270 


A HARD LESSON. 


“Your friend, then?” continued Mr. Bloggs, with 
scarcely concealed delight, and with a wave of his 
hand toward the opposite corner of the carriage. 

Mrs. Torrington introduced her. “ My cousin, Lady 
Camilla Greyson. ” Whereupon Mr. Bloggs smiled 
more blandly than ever. The aristocratic handle fin- 
ished his subjugation. He went off a wholly conquered 
and semi-idiotic man. 

“ Pray, what is the meaning of this farce?” inquired 
Lady Camilla coldly, as the two ladies seated them- 
selves in a four-wheeled cab with their boxes over their 
heads. 

Dora shrugged her shoulders with a half laugh. 

“ Oh, it is always a good thing to have a second string 
to one’s bow,” she answered carelessly. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


Upon hearing from Helen’s lips the dreadful words 
which parted him indeed from her forever, Gilbert 
Nugent staggered back, half stunned, against the wall. 

The blow was so utterly unexpected and so terrible 
that for the first few moments he was scarcely conscious 
of the pain that he was enduring. 

“ Married this morning! married this morning!” he 
repeated once or twice, with a dull bewilderment, and 
although he said the words aloud they seemed to convey 
no sort of meaning to his brain. 

It was only the sight of Helen’s distress that recalled 
him at length to a full sense of what had happened to 
him. 

Helen had fallen forward across the couch on which 
she had been sitting ; her face lay buried in her out- 
stretched arms, whilst the most heart-rending sobs 
shook her whole body. It seemed as though at length 
all the varied emotions and painful experiences of 
the whole day had culminated in this almost hysterical 
outburst of grief. Those great tearless sobs that arose 
in the silence of the little room one after the other 
with a terrible regularity, seemed to rend the frail and 
tender form with cruel and agonizing precision. 

She offered no explanation — she made no excuses — 
only she lay there prone and speechless, like a dumb 
animal in its mortal anguish. 

It was horrible to witness. It recalled him to him- 
self — it seemed to bridge over the yawning gulf between 

271 


272 


A HARD LESSON. 


them — to bring them near to one another in this common 
calamity. 

He stole forward and knelt down by her side. “ Don ’ t, 
dear — don’t!” he said gently and tenderly, passing his 
hand softly over her thick tumbled locks. “ For my 
sake, Helen, don’t sob like that.” 

The sound of his voice calmed her a little ; she tried 
to control herself, and his hand still caressed her head 
with a gentle touch. 

He murmured some low, vague words of comfort, such 
as he might have spoken to a weeping child — words that 
meant but little in themselves, yet that soothed and 
quieted her instinctively. After a little while she sat 
up and faced him, looking so white, and worn, and 
wretched that it cut him to the heart to see her. 

“Why are you so good to me? I do not deserve it,” 
she said, brokenly. “ How is it that you don’t curse 
and revile me?” 

“ My poor little girl!” was his only answer, and then, 
after a moment of silence, he broke out passionately 
and wildly — 

“ Oh, why did you do it? Why did you do it?” 

“You had left me,” she answered, with a gesture of 
despair. “You told me that it was all over — all over. 
Those were your words. Oh ! did you ever think how 
they would ring in my ears day and night — day and 
night — till they almost drove me mad, and then they 
persecuted me to marry that man whom I hate. They 
told me he could force me by law to marry him, but I 
would rather have died than be his wife ! And so I came 
here. Lord Bainton was my only friend ; he was always 
good to me. I had no home, and he offered me his ; no 
protector, and with him I could be safe. I had lost you. 
I had no hope anywhere, and so I did what he wanted 


A HARD LESSON. 


273 


because I knew I should make him happy and should be 
at peace myself. But oh, if I had known that you loved 
me still, that you would forgive me so soon, do you 
suppose I could have done it? It was only because I 
thought you had done with me forever. ” 

“Ah, child!” he answered very sadly, rising slowly 
from his knees and leaning against the mantelpiece op- 
posite to her. “ You know very little of love if you think 
that it can be killed so easily. As soon as I had left 
you I was wretched. My conscience began to reproach 
me for my harshness ; my heart to weep a thousand ex- 
cuses for your fault. It was certain to have been only 
a question of time that I should come back to throw my- 
self at your feet again; and then one day a friendly 
woman gave me the help of her sweet encouragement, 
and my pride surrendered to my love, and I came to you ; 
but I have come too late. Oh, my God! too late! too 
late!” And, with a groan, he turned away from her, 
and hid his face in his hands. 

“ If you had only come yesterday — only yesterday” — 
she wailed — “ I should have been saved.” 

“It is all my fault,” he said, after a brief pause, al- 
most more eloquent than words — and she could see, 
with a pang, that there were tears in his eyes — “ all my 
fault. I see it now plainly. I have behaved like a 
coward and a blackguard to you — to you, as well as to 
that other woman, whose life, like yours, I have spoilt 
by my folly and my sinful weakness.” 

“You will go back to her now, I suppose?” she said 
presently, moved by a faint gleam of that woman’s jeal- 
ousy which not all the terrible reality of the misfortune 
that had befallen them both was able to extinguish in 
her. 

“ No. By the God above us, I swear to you that I 
18 


274 


A HARD LESSON. 


will never go back to her ! I have already written to 
free myself from her toils, and I will never return to the 
false and shameful position which I had drifted into, at 
first unconsciously, but in the end with a culpable knowl- 
edge of what I was doing. Do you think, Helen, that 
after having known and loved you — you, who are the 
purest, the noblest, the best — that I could go back again 
to the slavery, the moral degradation in which I have 
been held so long? No, no; you have at least done one 
good thing for me — you have shown me that to have 
been loved by a pure-souled woman, such as you are, is 
something to be proud and glad of to one’s dying day — 
a sort of consecration which I shall never forget or be 
unworthy of again.” 

“ Thank God for that!” she murmured, with a gush of 
tears in which there was no longer any bitterness, and 
that relieved a little the aching pain at her heart. 

“I am going away, Helen,” he continued presently, 
“ going, as I have told you, to the other side of the world. 
Only that now, instead of remaining there for three 
years, I shall make my home there. I am a poor man. 
I have idled away my life long enough. It is time that 
I put my shoulder to the wheel, as other poor men have 
to do; and instead of living upon my friends I mean to 
work for myself — earn my own bread. In the colonies 
there are many openings for a man who is young and 
strong, as I am, and I shall soon find something to do.” 

Then Helen rose and laid her small hands gently and 
pleadingly upon his arm. 

“ Do me one kindness before you go, Gilbert — it is 
the only thing I ask of you. It is I who have supplanted 
you in your uncle’s will, who robbed you of the fortune 
that ought to have been yours. Let me at any rate re- 
pair that injustice. Take from me, before you go, at 


A HARD LESSON. 275 

least sufficient to keep you in comfort and to start you 
in your new life.” 

“ No, no,” he interrupted quickly, laying a hand upon 
hers. “ I cannot take your money, Helen. I could not 
touch it. Don’t think me ungrateful or proud; but it 
is impossible. Besides — your husband — ” his voice 
failed a little as he said the word. 

“My husband is good and generous,” she answered, 
not without a little tremor of wifely pride ; “ he will 
agree to all that I wish. He would be the first to ask 
you.” 

“Say no more, I entreat you,” he said hastily. “I 
cannot even discuss such a thing with you. Ask me 
anything else instead, Helen — anything else in the wide 
world, and I will do it.” 

For a few moments she was silent — thinking deeply. 
Deep down in her heart there was indeed a thought — a 
wish — that her dignity, her pride, her position as the 
Countess of Bainton almost forbade her to put into words. 
And yet — and yet — the longer she thought of it the 
more it seemed to her that it was utterly impossible to 
her to let him go from her forever without some such 
word being spoken between him and her. 

The present hour was like a death-bed parting. When 
they bade one another farewell — as in a few more brief 
moments it would become necessary to do — they would 
bid each other good-by forever! There could be no 
recalling of him again — no possibility of another inter- 
view. When he left this room where he and she stood 
now, speaking heart to heart as they had never spoken 
before, he would go also out of her life forever. It 
was her last opportunity. 

Could she, loving him as she did, and sure as she 
was of his steadfast and entire devotion, permit him to 


276 


A HARD LESSON. 


turn his back upon her forever without speaking that 
one word which might come to mean so much, so very 
much to him throughout all the black future of the 
coming years? 

The color rose hotly and burningly in her downcast 
face. He saw how she trembled and how her lips 
quivered, and guessed that she had indeed yet another 
request to make of him. 

“ What is it?” he whispered. “ Tell me and I will do 
it. Did you not save my life, Helen? and is not that 
life yours by right of conquest? Speak to me the thought 
that I can see is in your heart.” 

She lifted her eyes with a sudden courage to his. 

“ Can you give me some address that will always find 
you?” she asked hurriedly. 

He wrote down on the back of his card the name of 
the bankers in Auckland who would always know where 
to forward his letters. 

“Now swear to me,” she said, as she took the card 
from his hand, “ that if ever, no matter how many years 
hence, I write or telegraph to you to come back, that if 
I want you you will come to me.” 

“I swear to you,” he answered solemnly, “that if 
ever you send for me I will come to you from the utter- 
most ends of the earth if it is in human possibility for 
me to do so.” 

After that there was little left to be said between 
them. Both knew that the moment of parting had come. 
To prolong these last words and looks would be worse 
than useless. She glanced at the clock, and he answered 
the gesture with a sigh. 

“Yes, I know. It is time forme to go.” He took 
her two hands in his as she stood up before him, and 
looked earnestly into her face. “Dear love,” he said, 


A HARD LESSON. 


277 


with a deep and solemn tenderness, “ you will, I know, 
keep a brave heart, and bear nobly the trouble which 
has fallen upon you. Do not reproach yourself too 
much. These things are beyond the power of us blind, 
human puppets. We cannot struggle with our fate. 
We loved one another — we might have been happy — 
but — it was not to be. But if ever in your darkest hours 
of trial and of loneliness it is any comfort to you to re- 
member it, do not forget that somewhere in this world 
there is one true heart that will be forever yours — one 
staunch friend who would give his life-blood to serve 
you. You have taught me a great deal, Helen. As I 
told you once before, you have been my good angel. I 
always knew that somewhere beneath my frivolity, 
my recklessness, and my many bad actions, there was 
within me that which was capable of raising me, and 
of making a man of me. Well, it is your sweet hand 
that has done this for me. The old life is dead for me, 
a new and I trust a better one is before me, and wher- 
ever I go your gentle spirit will go with me to encourage 
me and to strengthen me in my up-hill path. God bless 
you, Helen. My good angel!” 

He took her head between his hands and gazed with 
a long, lingering intensity into her dark sorrow-laden 
eyes; then he stooped and pressed his lips for one 
moment upon her forehead. 

There was no passion in that kiss — it was solemn and 
sad, with the tender solemnity, the unutterable sadness 
of an eternal farewell ! 

In another moment it was over. The door closed 
softly upon him ; and there was, in that empty little 
room, only a heartbroken woman, lying in speechless 
anguish prone upon the ground. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Lady Camilla got quite accustomed to sitting in Mr. 
Scarsdale’s office in Lincoln’s Inn during the next few 
days. She learnt to know every piece of old-fashioned 
furniture in the room by heart. The heavy writing- 
table, with its hacked and ink-stained green leather top ; 
and the big splashed glass inkstand ; and all the papers 
and blue documents tied up with red tape that were 
piled upon it ; the mahogany chairs, the book-cases round 
the walls filled with dull looking legal books, and the 
shelves that were heaped up to the ceiling with black 
japanned tin boxes, each labelled with the name of its 
particular owner — all became as familiar to her as the 
luxurious accessories and knick-nacks of her own boudoir 
at Old Park. 

She was in that dreary room morning, noon, and 
night. Sometimes, if Mr. Scarsdale happened to be en- 
gaged with another client, she had to wait there for 
perhaps over an hour for him, and at such times she 
would sit by herself, taking in every detail of her sur- 
roundings until she thought she must collapse in a state 
of imbecility. When she had read through all the 
leading articles in the morning paper laid by her side 
by an obsequious clerk — all the news it contained, politi- 
cal and theatrical, all the records of royalty, all the 
notices of new books and new soaps, had studied the 
long columns of advertisements, the coachmen, the cooks 
and the housemaids, till she knew them all by heart, 
and began to weave histories about their last places and 
future situations, then impatiently she would toss the 

278 


A HARD LESSON. 


279 


paper aside, and her eyes would wander for the hundredth 
time from the gas-stained ceiling to the threadbare car- 
pet, and from the dusty backs of the law books, and the 
white painted names upon the tin boxes to the dreary 
lookout of the back yard, that was visible through the 
dusty window panes, where the London sparrows chirped 
and chattered with irritating monotony, till perhaps a 
famine-stricken cat with mangy fur and stealthy move- 
ments, would prowl along the top of the wall, creating 
quite a diversion in the morning’s procedings by scat- 
tering the frightened flock into a sudden upward rush of 
wings out of her sight. 

Why Lady Camilla sat there for all those weary hours 
it would be a puzzling thing to say. It is certain that she 
did not derive much consolation from anything that Mr. 
Scarsdale told her. He had not scrupled to inform her 
that Lord Bainton had made a new will on his wedding- 
day, nor to imply by many shakings of the head and 
pursing up of the lips that this will was wholly unfavor- 
able to young Mr. Greyson’s future prospects. Scars- 
dale did not go to the length of showing her the will, 
but he allowed her to worm out of him the whole sub- 
stance and gist of it, and at the same time he contrived 
by hints and mysterious allusions to instil into her a 
suspicion that the new Lady Bainton, who had doubtless 
worked in an undue manner over the invalid’s feelings, 
was perfectly capable of working a further mischief to 
her and to hers. 

A legacy of a thousand pounds by his own earnest 
entreaty, he said, was still to come to Ted Greyson. 
Mr. Scarsdale was of opinion that if Lady Bainton could 
she would wrest from him even this small and misera- 
ble sum. 

“ But is there nothing to be done — nothing?” Lady 


A HARD LESSON. 


280 

Camilla would cry in despair. “ Can no laws be brought 
to bear upon this wicked and mercenary woman, to force 
her to disgorge the money that ought by every right, 
human and divine, to belong to my poor wronged boy?" 

“ There is unfortunately nothing to be done at present. 
The will was drawn up by me. I was almost, I most 
solemnly assure you, my lady, in tears. It is not pos- 
sible to move a finger in the matter now. The law ” — 
Mr. Scarsdale always spoke this word as though he was 
alluding to a real and living thing — a Deity to be only 
mentioned with reverence and bated breath — “ the law 
allows every man to dispose of his own as he pleases, 
provided always the form of his dispositon is in order, 
and he himself is of sound mind, and his decision free 
and unprejudiced. It is impossible to dispute the fun- 
damental principle that a testator has the power to leave 
his estate to his wife." 

“ Then it is hopeless?" 

Mr. Scarsdale cleared his throat, and crossed and 
uncrossed his legs. 

“ It is not very hopeful. At the same time, there is 
a loophole. " 

“Ah!" 

“ Mind, I don’t say it is much — it were safer, in fact, 
not to build any hopes upon it ; but still, there is a loop- 
hole. Your brother, Lady Camilla, was exceedingly 
ill on the morning he directed me to draw up this unjust 
will, and if it could be proved that the young woman 
had brought any pressure or undue influence to bear 
upon his lordship’s mind, we might have a very pretty 
case at his death — which, alas, cannot now be a far dis- 
tant event — upon which to dispute the alteration of the 
wishes of his whole life, which were certainly in favor 
of your son. But, save in the way of collecting evidence, 


A HARD LESSON. 


28 l 


we cannot do anything or move in any way at the pre- 
sent moment, and certainly I must advise you not to 
attempt to go to the house. Our business now must be 
to work our way cautiously — to find out what happened 
in the sick chamber on the day that his lordship 
astounded me by sending his valet to me to command 
me to draw up a new will in favor of a lady whom he 
was going to marry within a few hours. I assure you, 
Lady Camilla, such an astonishing thing has never 
happened in all my professional experience. I said to 
myself, at once, Who has brought about this?” 

“ But this evidence that you speak about ; how is it 
to be obtained?” 

“ Mainly from the servants who were in attendance 
on his lordship at the time. They will have to be care- 
fully questioned — severally and separately. Opportuni- 
ties will have to be watched for and carefully seized. 
It will be a matter of time, ” added Mr. Scarsdale, leaning 
back in his armchair and considering Lady Camilla’s 
face attentively, “ it will be, I feel I must add, a matter 
of money.” 

Lady Camilla was quick enough to see that what Mr. 
Scarsdale meant to imply was that he must be well paid 
for the investigations he proposed to start, and that if 
he were paid, and well paid, that they would be more 
likely to turn out satisfactorily. 

With a heightened color, she told him that to secure 
her son’s interests she was prepared to make a sacrifice — 
any sacrifice, in fact. 

And Mr. Scarsdale smiled blandly across the table at 
her. 

Things were just at this point in their conversation 
one day when a clerk entered the room and whispered 
something in the solicitor’s ear. 


282 


A HARD LESSON. 


Mr. Scarsdale rose. “ Will yon be so obliging as to 
excuse me one moment, Lady Camilla? There is some 
one waiting who wishes to see me very particularly” ; 
and with a bow the solicitor left the room. 

Lady Camilla groaned. She knew what “ one mo- 
ment” meant in Mr. Scarsdale’s vocabulary; it ranged 
over a wide period of time — anything, from an hour and 
a half down to twenty minutes, was comprised within 
the elastic limits of that convenient “ one moment.” It 
was never by any chance less than twenty minutes. 

She took up the paper — only to fling it down again 
with angry impatience. Even the servants who wanted 
places interested her no longer. 

“Second where six are kept— town preferred,” she 
murmured aloud, glancing at the requirements of a 
housemaid. “Why, the girl must be a fool. There 
aren’t six houses in all London that want six housemaids, 
I suppose. I hope she will be out of place for six 
months,” she added with an irrational viciousness — the 
fact being that the poor lady was so harrowed, and 
irritated, and embittered, that she really wanted some- 
thing or somebody to wreak her wrath upon. 

Presently, tired of sitting upon the straight-backed 
chair where she had remained without moving for the 
last three-quarters of an hour, she rose and sauntered to 
the window, and stood for some minutes looking out into 
the yard. The prospect was not inviting. The usual 
sparrows, the usual dirt, and presently the usual mangy 
cat, bent on extermination, creeping round the corner 
of the scullery roof next door. 

Bah ! How sordid and ugly it was ; and how tired 
she was of it all. 

Was the prospect that Scarsdale (who wanted to be 
well paid) held out to her sufficiently hopeful, sufficiently 


A HARD LESSON. 283 

promising, to recompense her for all these hours of dreary 
boredom ? 

Lady Camilla turned away from the window with a 
gesture of impatience, and as she did so her eyes fell 
upon a high, green-painted iron safe which stood in a 
sombre corner behind the window curtain. 

What made her notice it particularly now was that it 
presented an unaccustomed outline to her eye. The 
door was wide open, and Mr. vScarsdale’s keys depended 
from the lock. 

Lady Camilla stood before it absently for some min- 
utes. She had never, to her knowledge, looked into 
an open safe before. On the lower shelf stood a strongly 
clamped little box. 

“ Family diamonds, I dare say, ” thought Lady Camilla 
to herself. “ I wonder whose they are?” 

Above these were three drawers. She pulled open 
the first with just that kind of idle instinct which 
impels people to do something entirely purposeless, just 
because they have nothing to do. 

The drawer was full of keys, and to every key was 
tied a white label, on which was written its object and 
its purpose. 

“ Lady Barker’s settlements ” ; “ Joseph Haldon, Esq., 
will and codicil to do ” ; “ Mrs. Anna Green’s testament- 
ary provisions, plate, pictures, jewellery, etc.”; “Title 
deeds of the Rotherborough estate ” ; “ Title deeds of 
freehold house property in London ” ; and so on, and so 
on. She took the keys up one after the other, and read 
these inscriptions simply and solely out of idle curiosity. 
Presently her fingers touched another, and as her eyes 
fell upon the label of this one her hand tightened sud- 
denly over the key. “Title deeds of Lord Bainton’s 
estates and property in Cheshire. Agreement of lease 


284 


A HARD LESSON. 


of Portman Square house and stables. Will dated 1880,” 
was what was written upon this one, and then, beneath, 
two or three words were added in ink, that was appar- 
ently quite fresh, “Will dated February 23d, 1889.” 

That was the date of Lord Bainton’s wedding last 
week. 

Lady Camilla remained staring at the key in her hand, 
perfectly immovable. For some minutes she did not 
wink an eyelash nor stir a finger. She was plunged in 
thought. Presently a quick frown swept across her 
brows, and she put her hand quickly forward as though 
to replace it in the drawer, then with a short, gasping 
breath she drew it slowly back again, and passed her 
other hand with a sort of distracted movement over 
her face. There were beads of perspiration standing on 
her forehead. 

She turned round, walked swiftly across the room, 
and stood before the shelves with the piled-up rows of 
japanned boxes upon them. 

There it was sure enough — where she had read upon 
it over and over again the inscription : 

“ The Earl of Bainton. Deeds, papers, etc. ” 

Her own particular box, labelled “ Lady C. Greyson’s 
marriage settlements,” stood below it. 

“ Deeds, papers, etc. , ” murmured Lady Camilla be- 
low her breath. “ The will is there — the two wills!” — 
and then she was quite still again for just as long as one 
might have counted twenty. 

All at once decision came to her. Her face, that had 
been pale before, flushed up into a deep brick-red. She 
threw one hurried, guilty glance backward over her 
shoulder toward the door, and then she lifted the tin 
box down from the shelf. 

It was the work of a moment to fit the key into the 


A HARD LESSON. 


2 85 


lock and to open it. Her trembling hands searched 
hurriedly among the papers with which it was filled to 
the brim. The new will lay almost at the top ; the old 
will nearly at the bottom. She looked over the latter 
first, and it took but a few seconds to perceive that here 
everything, save a few trifling legacies, was left in trust 
to herself for “my nephew Edward Thomas Greyson;” 
whilst in the new will all, with the exception of the one 
thousand pounds legacy to Ted, was devised uncon- 
ditionally and absolutely to “ my beloved wife, Helen, 
Countess of Bainton. ,, 

Lady Camilla put back the will of 1880 safely at the 
bottom of the box, locked it up, and replaced it upon 
the shelf exactly as it stood before. Then she made 
three swift paces across the room toward the fireplace, 
and in another ten seconds, of the last will and testament 
of the Earl of Bainton, there was nothing left save a 
few blackened fragments, fast fluttering into nothing- 
ness among the flames. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Mrs. Torrington could not, naturally, be bothered to 
accompany Lady Camilla every day to Mr. Scarsdale’s 
office in Lincoln’s Inn. Besides, she had her own aims 
and objects in coming to London, and although she was 
glad enough to dine and go to a theatre with her cousin 
in the evenings, and to meet her at breakfast in the 
coffee-room of the hotel where they were staying, she 
occupied herself all day in very different ways. 

Her first day in town, unfortunately, was productive 
of intense annoyance and disappointment to her, and as 
far as the primary business of her visit to London was 
concerned, she was rewarded only by entire and absolute 
failure. 

On the afternoon of her arrival she had employed her- 
self in certain very characteristic and feminine prelimi- 
naries. She had visited her milliner and had purchased 
a very becoming Paris bonnet. Later on, from a fashion- 
able mantle emporium in Bond street, she had issued 
forth arrayed in a smart velvet jacket of the latest shape, 
trimmed with chinchilla fur. New gloves, boots, and 
dainty little embroidered handkerchiefs were added 
to her already large store of such articles, and she ended 
her day at the hairdresser’s where her fair locks were 
washed, curled, and perfumed, and her fair face touched 
up by some mysterious process into a new and clever 
similitude of the bloom and freshness of early girlhood. 
The next morning, as soon as Lady Camilla had gone 
off to Lincoln’s Inn, Dora first arrayed herself in her 

286 


A HARD LESSON. 


287 


new purchases and then concealed the glories of her 
raiment beneath a long cloak and a very thick veil. 
These preparations being arranged, she desired that a 
hansom might be called for her. 

Gilbert Nugent was standing in the middle of his 
chambers in the Albany, much as Marius is said to have 
stood amidst the ruins of Carthage. 

Of those beautiful orderly rooms nothing was now 
remaining save chaos and confusion. Boxes to the right 
of him ! Boxes to the left of him ! Gun-cases, cartridge- 
cases, fishing-tackle all over the floor. Clothes, boots, 
books, linen on every available chair and table. Parcels 
that poured in from the tailor, the hosier, the bootmaker, 
the outfitter, at every moment. A new saddle from 
Souter’s on the centre table ; a new pair of revolvers, 
glistening in their rosewood cases, from Colt’s upon the 
side-table ; and in the midst of the hurly-burly toiled and 
slaved a much be-driven valet, with his coat and waist- 
coat off and his shirt-sleeves turned up to the elbows. 

The master, himself coatless, worked as hard as the 
man, packing in everything he could lay hands upon 
promiscuously into a huge, half-full packing-case in the 
centre of the sitting-room. Through the open door of 
the room beyond, the bed, heaped up with more articles 
of clothing, and the dressing-table, strewn with brushes, 
razors, and bottles, and all sorts of toilet implements, 
could furthermore be perceived. 

“All this, Baines,” quoth Gilbert Nugent, “must be 
ready by six o’clock to-night. The things for the hold 
of the ship, I mean. My light portmanteau and the 
Gladstone bag and the dressing-bag, and that square 
leather box yonder, may be left until to-morrow.” 

“That’s just the trouble of it, sir, ’’replied the perspir- 
ing valet; “if it wasn’t for the dividing of the things, 


288 


A HARD LESSON. 


and the settling of which is to go where, why packing 
for the South Pole would be nothing but child’s play. 
And who is to unpack and put it all straight for you, I 
should like to know?” continued the servant, presently; 
“ who’s to find your things again, and brush’em, and 
lay ’em out for you, on t’ther side of the world?” 

“ I am afraid I shall have to learn to do all that kind 
of thing myself, Baines. ” 

“ Oh, sir!” exclaimed Baines, brushing his shirt-sleeve 
across his eyes. “Oh, Mr. Nugent, sir ! why wont you 
take me with you? I can’t abear to think of your having 
nobody to look after you.” 

“ My good fellow, I’d take you gladly if I could afford 
it; but, you see, I’m going away because I can’t pay 
my way at home any longer, and I shall have to work 
for my living. In those new countries a gentleman 
must work, and can’t keep a valet, you know.” 

“Oh, Mr. Nugent, I’d serve you for nothing — that I 
would ! Do take me. ” 

“No, my man,” said. Gilbert gently, not untouched 
by the man’s devotion; “ I would not accept such a sac- 
rifice from you, although I thank you heartily for 
suggesting it. You will have no difficulty in getting a 
good place at home, and a far better master, Baines, than 
ever I have been to you.” 

Baines bent low over the portmanteau he was filling, 
and one or two tears dropped silently down upon his 
master’s shirt-fronts. 

“ Never one who will do so much credit to a servant, 
sir,” he said brokenly, “ or set off well-cleaned breeches 
and boots so well on a ’unting morning, nor one 
who could look one ’half so haristocratic in evening 
dress. ” 

And it was just at this juncture, and upon the utter- 


A HARD LESSON. 289 

ance of this heartfelt testimony to Gilbert’s virtues, that 
the bell at the outer door rang loudly. 

“ Run to the door, Baines — that must be those horse- 
rugs and bridles from the Army and Navy stores, at 
last!” cried Nugent; “they swore I should get them 
last night. However, there is still room to pack them 
in this case, thank goodness.” Baines went across the 
little outer passage to the door. He remained away for 
some minutes, but presently came back again with 
rather a mysterious air, closing the door cautiously 
behind him. 

“ It’s a lady, sir,” he said in a whisper. 

“A lady? I can’t see any one, Baines.” 

“So I’ve told her, sir. But she wont take no de- 
nial, and says she must see you very particular at 
once.” 

“What is she like?” 

“ I can’t say, sir. She has got a thick veil tied all 
over ’er ’ead.” 

The color rose to Gilbert’s face. A lady deeply 
veiled. What wild dream was this? Could it be Helen 
come to take one last look at him, to bid him farewell 
once more? As the thought rushed through his mind 
he more than half regretted it : the parting had been so 
hard, and it was over. Why seek to renew so sad a 
struggle? Why re-open the aching wound? And yet 
the thought that she should have risked so much, her 
safety, her very reputation, just to see him again, 
thrilled him at the same time with a strange sense of 
exultant joy. So filled was his mind with Helen’s image 
that it never occurred to him for a moment that it could 
be any one else. 

“ Did the lady give her name, Baines?” 

“ No, sir. I did ask her, but she said she wouldn’t give 

19 


290 


A HARD LESSON. 


no name, but she thought you’d be sure to know who 
she was.” 

“Very well, I will see her. Show her in. And, 
Baines,” he called out, as the servant was turning to 
leave the room, “you go off at once to the chemist’s in 
Bond Street after those bottles I ordered there; you 
can bring them back with you. ” 

“Yes, sir. I quite understand.” 

The door was thrown open, and a thickly veiled lady, 
whose figure was concealed in the folds of a voluminous 
cloak, entered the room. 

With outstretched hands Nugent strode forward to 
greet her. 

“Helen!” escaped from his eager lips, and then he 
fell back suddenly. “Ah, no! Ah, it is you!” 

A peal of ringing laughter answered him. The cloak 
slipped to the ground ; she threw the veil from her head, 
and Dora Torrington, brilliant and lovely, but with a 
glitter that was not all love in her eyes, stood before 
him. 

“No! As it happens I am not ‘Helen!’ ” she cried. 
“Not this time! Is it, may I ask, the custom of that 
fair lady — that newly wedded wife — to come by herself 
to your rooms? I should have thought that the Countess 
of Bainton valued her new position too highly to be 
guilty of such Bohemian practices. ” 

“ I must request you to leave that lady out of your 
conversation,” said Nugent angrily, deeply annoyed 
with himself for having let fall her name in his mis- 
taken agitation. 

“ Oh, certainly. Anything for a quiet life, my dear 
boy. But what on earth is the meaning of this chaos?” 
she cried, casting rapid glances round the disordered 
room, “What are you about?” 


A HARD LESSON. 


291 


“ You see. I am packing up,” he said coldly. 

“Packing up! Why, where in the world are you 
going? 

“ Did I not tell you in my letter? I am going to New 
Zealand. My passage to Auckland is taken in the 
Zenobia . I start the day after to-morrow. ” 

“Not so fast, Gilbert; not so fast! I really cannot 
consent to your exiling yourself from your country, and 
from me, in this foolish fashion. ” 

“I am afraid that I shall have to dispense with 
your consent, much as I may regret being unable to 
obtain it.” 

“That is all nonsense!” she cried, furious at his cold 
and sarcastic words and manner, “utter nonsense! 
You cannot shake me off in this easy manner. You 
are bound to me by too many ties — too many vows. 
You wrote of remaining away for three years.” 

“ I have changed my mind since I said so. ” 

“You have changed your mind?” 

“ I am never coming back. ” 

“Gilbert! Gilbert!” she cried distractedly, and, 
flinging herself down upon the sofa, she burst into a 
passion of loud sobs that were not perhaps quite 
genuine. She had never seen him in this cold, hard 
mood before. She did not quite believe in it now. 
She was certain that she might melt him by her well- 
timed grief ; that she would still be able to have her 
way with him. 

But her tears did not touch him. “ My dear Dora,” 
he said quietly, “ pray control yourself, and listen to 
common sense. Did I not explain to you fully in my 
letter that all that was to be at an end. We have had 
enough of this farce — you and I. Years ago I would 
have married you without a penny — would have worked 


292 


A HARD LESSON. 


for you, have devoted my life to you. But you would 
not have me. You would not marry a poor man: you 
were worldly wise. I do not blame you. I dare say I 
was not worth facing poverty with. You said we were 
to wait until I got my uncle’s money, a chance that was 
always a remote one. Well what happened? We did 
wait — for six long and weary years — till my love and 
my patience alike were worn out ; and then I had the 
misfortune to offend my uncle, and he left his money 
to some one else.” 

“ To that woman who has supplanted me.” 

“ He had a perfect right to leave his money to whom 
he pleased,” he continued coldly; “ but to you it makes 
surely all the difference. I am what I was when you 
did me the honor to refuse to become my wife before — 
a poor man, hampered by debts and unable to support a 
smart lady of fashion in that luxury which is no doubt 
her due. Why cannot you accept the situation? Why 
do you want to keep me still dangling idle at your side 
when I have not the faintest chance of ever being able 
to marry you? Why, do you not see that your posi- 
tion with regard to me is injuring you in the eyes of 
the world — is fatal to your chances of making a good 
marriage, and is, moreover — if you will forgive me say- 
ing so — ruinous to your reputation?” 

“ And what if I care for none of these things — if I 
have no desire to marry any one? What if I am wholly 
indifferent to what the world says?” she cried agi- 
tatedly. 

“No' woman can afford to be that,” he replied 
coldly. 

She came close to him, stretched up her arms, and 
wound them about his neck. He strove to shake her 
off, but she clung to him. All the anger had gone out 


a HARD LESSON. 


2 93 


of her face. Only the longing and the tenderness 
remained. 

“I can — lean!” she cried, with emotion, “because I 
love you, Gilbert ; because you are still more than all 
the world to me ; because if you go away and leave me 
I shall die.” 

“ I am obliged to go — ” 

“ Then, for pity’s sake take me with you, Gilbert. I 
have loved you for so many years. You cannot throw 
me over now — you cannot!” 

“ Have I not told you already that it must all be -over, 
Dora? Why do you give yourself and me the pain of 
this explanation? Why do you force me to say again 
what I have told you before — that I no longer love you?” 

She fell back from him weeping. “ Oh, have men no 
hearts?” she wailed. 

“ I do not think, Dora, there has been for some time 
past as much heart as vanity in your feeling toward me. ” 

“ You are ungenerous — and see, ” she cried, with a sud- 
den energy, “ I will prove to you that you are mistaken — 
that I love you truly. Poor as you are, I will marry 
you, and I will go with you to the other side of the 
world. Get a special license, and we will be married 
to-morrow. I will give up everything — my friends, my 
country — everything I care about, and I will come with 
you and try to be a good wife to you in your new life. 
Now do you believe that I love you unselfishly? Now 
do you understand what you are to me?” 

There was a short silence. She stood before him 
breathless with anxiety. She meant what she said, 
every word of it. The homage she had received from 
him for so long was so sweet to her that she was pre- 
pared to sacrifice everything sooner than lose it. For 
the first time she was offering to him of her own free 


294 


A HARD LESSON. 


will what in the early days of their friendship he had 
pleaded for often on his knees in vain. She devoured 
his face with her eyes, whilst he, sombre and gloomy, 
with a frowning brow and head bent down, stood 
sternly — almost forbiddingly silent. 

At length he lifted his eyes and looked at her. There 
was something worse than anger in them — there was 
contempt. 

“You do me a great honor, Mrs. Torrington,” he 
said, in slow, measured words of scorn ; “ and I am 
grateful to you for the flattering proposal you have made 
to me. I must, however, decline to avail myself of 
your generosity. I have no intention of marrying at 
all; and — forgive me for adding — if I had, I should 
have no desire to make you my wife.” 

For a moment she was speechless with anger ; then, 
like a mad woman, she burst forth into a perfect torrent 
of invectives, calling him in her livid fury by every 
violent name that she could hurl at him. 

Then, gathering her cloak with a wild gesture about 
her, she turned her back upon him and left him, slam- 
ming the door loudly behind her as she went. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


Helen had but little leisure to spend in mourning 
over her lost happiness during the days that followed 
her last farewell to the man she loved so hopelessly. 
Her husband and his illness took up her whole time. 
He was still in great and constant danger, and it seemed 
often doubtful whether he would live or die. Necessity 
quickly made her helpful and efficient in the sick room. 
The earl liked to have her near him — to feel the touch 
of her soft hands, and to murmur a few low words of 
endearment to her as she bent over his bed with food 
or medicine. If he was too weak even for this, his eyes 
could still follow her graceful figure as she moved about 
the room, with the pathetic wistfulness of a dog-like 
affection. 

In all her own private sorrow and remorse she was 
deeply touched and sincerely grateful to him, rejoicing 
to think that she could do something for him who had 
done so much for her. As the days went by, too, the first 
keen edge of her regret and her despair wore off, and 
she resigned herself to her fate. She was happier after 
she had read in the shipping intelligence that the Zenobia 
had sailed. It made it easier for her to bear when she 
knew for certain that Nugent was actually gone, and 
that she could never see him again. 

She flung herself with ardor into all the small details 
of nursing, and grew at last to feel as though the world 
itself had no wider horizon than the four walls of the 
sick room — no other interest beyond the rise and fall 

295 


296 


A HARD LESSON. 


of the invalid’s temperature, the due administration of 
his medicines, and the anxious consideration of the 
delicacies with which it would be possible to tempt 
his feeble appetite. 

In the course of these entirely wife-like ministration 
Lady Bainton managed to fall out with the nurse. She 
had never really liked or trusted her, and at last found 
her out in some trifling act of negligence. It was the 
work of one day to report her conduct to Sir Augustus 
Rolls, and to request him to substitute another. 

Mrs. Hogan departed at nightfall, vowing vengeance 
against her; and Helen, all unconscious of the enemy 
that she had made, congratulated herself on having got 
rid of her so quickly and so easily. 

Sir Augustus Rolls no longer regarded her now with 
suspicious disapproval. For, however mean the motives 
for which she had married him, he was forced to admit 
that she did her duty to the old man ; and her devotion 
and tender assiduity to the invalid won at length his 
admiration as well as his respect. Sometimes, too, for 
other reasons, Helen was tempted to feel almost glad 
that fate had played such strange tricks with her life, 
and had left her stranded in the quiet seclusion of a sick 
man’s house. 

For she enjoyed now a complete immunity from the 
persecutions of Mr. Frederick Wame. One reproachful 
letter from Miss Fairbrother did, indeed, reach her, 
wherein she was upbraided bitterly for her ingratitude 
and her cruelty to her dear and sorely tried nephew ; 
but as Helen failed to see where the ingratitude and 
cruelty lay she very wisely determined to send no reply 
to her letter, and there the correspondence ended. 

It would indeed have caused her something akin to 
amusement could she have been present to witness the 


A HARD LESSON. 


297 


rage and indignation at Aberdare House upon the arrival 
of the news of her marriage. Frederick, indeed, for- 
getting the high and lofty ideal which it had been his 
pride ever to act up to — at least, before others — lapsed 
into the failings of the vulgar, and swore roundly and 
freely in the most unvarnished terms at the lady of his 
late affections — considerably to the horror and conster- 
nation of his aged relative, who was fairly frightened 
out of her wits by the manly vigor of his language. 

“ My dear! My dear!” she cried, lifting her hands 
in trembling protestation. “ Pray, pray control your- 
self ! Suppose any of the girls should overhear you, or 
the new pupil teacher who only came last week. I 
made every allowance for your disappointment, 
Frederick; but however badly that unhappy girl has 
behaved to you, strive to remember, my dear, that it is 
sent you as a cross, and that we must always bow 
meekly and without murmuring beneath the chasten- 
ing rod.” 

The “ chastening rod ” did not reduce Mr. Warne to 
meekness in the least; in fact, his aunt’s words merely 
had the effect of diverting the channel of his wrath 
upon herself. 

“ Why did you ever put it into my head to want the 
girl? It is all your fault, aunt. You should never 
have allowed me to waste my time upon her. You 
ought to have known that she was bad and false at 
heart, and unworthy of me. ” 

“ My dear nephew, you are unjust to me,” replied the 
old lady, feeling hurt and injured. 

“Many is the viper,” she continued sententiously, 
for she delighted in a metaphor, “ that has been 
nourished and fed in the dove’s nest, and has rewarded 
its benefactor’s care only by striking her to the heart.” 


298 


A HARD LESSON. 


And Miss Fairbrother carried out her illustration by 
slapping her jet-beaded chest with tragic emphasis — 
thereby leading it to be supposed that if Helen were the 
viper she herself was undoubtedly the dove. 

“ It seems hard upon me, aunt, that I should have 
my affections trampled upon by a viper / 5 groaned the 
young man. 

“Vipers glide; they do not trample — they have no 
legs , 55 amended Miss Fairbrother, by force of habit 
instructively and didactically ; “ and between ourselves, 
Frederick, you must confess that it is a greater disap- 
pointment to lose the money than the girl herself . 55 

“ I consider money as mere dross — only an instrument 
to success which in the hands of the wise can be turned 
to good account, and which in the hands of the foolish 
becomes like chaff before the wind . 55 

As there was no controverting such an admirable and 
incontestable statement the conversation here lan- 
guished, and Frederick went his way to his daily work, 
whilst Miss Fairbrother relieved her feelings by sitting 
down and writing to the delinquent what she termed 
“ a piece of her mind.” 

Having done this and posted her letter, Miss Fair- 
brother sighed a little sadly. 

“After all, I was fond of the girl,” she thought, as 
she sat by herself in her little study during the long 
hours when her pupils supposed her to be reading his- 
torical and scientific treatises, but when in reality she 
was either dozing or dreaming idly over her past life. 
“ Of all the pupil teachers I have ever had Helen Dacre 
was the one I liked the best. She had no method — no 
order ; she was dissatisfied with her life here ; but she 
was gentle and she had nice soft eyes and a low voice. 
She did not rub me up the wrong way, like that black- 


A HARD LESSON. 


299 


haired girl with the beady eyes, or like the new one 
here now, with the rasping voice and long, hooked nose. 
If it had not been for Frederick Helen might have come 
back to see me sometimes, for I don’t think she dis- 
liked me. Perhaps it was a mistake to have tried to 
make up a match between them. They were never 
suited to each other, and I suppose she only accepted 
him in the first instance for the sake of a home. When 
she came into the money we ought to have given up 
the idea. But then it was a great temptation — a very 
great temptation. Frederick had such noble aims, dear 
fellow ! and that money would have been the making 
of him. He would have made his mark in the world, 
would Frederick, if he had a little capital at his back ; 
whereas now, I suppose, he will have to go on plodding 
in an inferior position to the end of his days. Ah, it 
was a sad pity that he got no real hold over the child’s 
heart when he had the chance. That is where the mis- 
chief lay, I suppose. She was imaginative, silly girl, 
and I suppose Frederick did not flatter her enough. 
Ah, well ! Life is a strange thing ; and only to think 
of my little pupil teacher marrying an earl — a real live 
earl!” she repeated slowly to herself more than once, 
as though not altogether displeased to dwell upon the 
impressive thought. And then presently Miss Fair- 
brother dropped off comfortably to sleep, and dreamed 
that Helen was kneeling at her feet entreating her to 
accept her whole fortune of thirty thousand pounds tied 
up in a canvas bag, and that Lord Bainton was placing 
an earl’s coronet in gilt paper upon Frederick’s head in 
the background, and pressing upon him his family 
mansion in Portman Square as a wedding present. 

The early days of Helen’s married life passed away 
sadly and monotonously enough, and often she asked 


3°o 


A HARD LESSON. 


herself with a sort of amazement whether she could 
really be the Countess of Bainton, or whether she was 
not, after all, nothing but Helen Dacre, a friendless 
orphan girl, with no place and no home in the world. 

And all these days the Zenobia ploughed her way 
through the ocean waves farther and farther from Eng- 
land’s cliffs, bearing away the man with whom the ro- 
mance of the girl’s whole life was bound up, and whose 
departure closed, as it seemed forever, the chapter of 
love in her heart. 

One day Lord Bainton grew suddenly better. The 
doctors began to smile and to prophesy great things, 
and there was a general air of revival and of satisfaction 
on every face in the house. 

“We must get him abroad, Lady Bainton,” said Sir 
Augustus to her. “ As soon as ever he is well enough 
to travel you must take him to the South — it will be 
everything for him to escape the cold east winds of ou,r 
English spring.” 

“And you think he is really better, then, Sir 
Augustus?” 

“There is a marked improvement in his condition.” 

“ Do you believe that it will last — that the improve- 
ment will be permanent?” she persisted. 

“His lordship has a remarkably fine constitution,” 
replied the physician, evasively not meeting his ques- 
tioner’s eyes. 

“Sir Augustus, I want you to tell me something,” 
said Helen gravely, laying a detaining hand on his 
coat-sleeve. “ I want you to be honest. Once before 
you were painfully — I might almost say brutally — 
honest to me. ” 

“ Lady Bainton, I entreat you to forget that occasion. 
I owe you a thousand apologies for my conduct, and I 


A HARD LESSON. 


3°i 


frankly own now that, having been a daily witness of 
yonr devotion to your husband, I see that I made a 
grave and unpardonable mistake concerning you.” 

“ Pray do not apologize, Sir Augustus. You believed 
you were doing your duty, and I honored you even then 
for your frankness. But I want you to be as frank with 
me now. You told me then that my husband was the 
victim of a fatal disease — of one, I understand you to 
mean, that was incurable — was not that so?” 

He nodded. 

“ Have you seen any cause to alter your opinion since 
then? Are you sure that the disease exists, or if it does 
that you cannot overcome it?” 

After a moment or two of painful silence Sir Augustus 
answered, with an effort — 

“ I have unfortunately no grounds to alter my opin- 
ion, Lady Bainton. Your husband’s disease is a mor- 
tal one, and must one day have a fatal termination; 
but his constitution is a fine one, and he might — mind, 
I do not say he will — but he might live for some time.” 

“What do you imply by ‘some time?’ ” asked Helen, 
who had turned white to the lips at this verdict. 

“A year — perhaps. Possibly two. Not more.” 

She bent her head with a little catch in her breath. 
Sir Augustus grasped her hand. “ You must be brave, 
and you must do your best. Take him abroad — he will 
enjoy it, and it will revive him for the time. Make 
his life as pleasant to him as possible ; there is nothing 
else to be done for him. For you, my dear lady, tell 
me if there is anything I can do for you?” 

“Yes,” she answered, after a pause. “Do me one 
kindness. Write to Lord Bainton ’s sister, Lady Camilla 
Greyson, at Old Park House, and tell her what you 
have just told to me. I should like her to know the 


3°2 


A HARD LESSON. 


$ 

truth, and she has treated me so unkindly that I do not 
wish to write to her myself.” 

“ I will do so to-night without fail. And I will tell 
her at the same time that her brother could not possibly 
be in the hands of a better or tenderer nurse than his 
wife. ” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


Lady Camilla had gone back to Old Park with a some- 
what unaccountable haste. All at once she seemed 
to Mr. Scarsdale to cease to take any interest in her 
brother’s will, and to be no longer eager to hunt up 
evidence that might in the future help her to dispute it. 

“ I have come to the conclusion that it would be 
difficult and dangerous to do anything,” she told the 
solicitor ; “ and, unfortunate and deplorable as things 
are for poor Ted, I don’t suppose they can be helped.” 

Mr. Scarsdale was dreadfully disappointed. It had 
promised to be a very nice little business for him, and 
he had looked forward to his share of the costs of the 
case with the greatest satisfaction. 

“ It’s mean of her,” he thought, “ d — d mean! She 
grudges the money. She was always a close-fisted one. ” 

And then he did his best to try and make her change 
her mind and to reawaken her keenness in the matter. 

But it was all in vain. For some incomprehensible 
reason Lady Camilla did not seem to care any more 
about it. She went back to Old Park and told her Tom 
that it was impossible to find out whether Bainton had 
altered his will or not, and anyhow there was nothing to 
be done. Ted must take his chances, like other people. 

Whereat Tom, who was a peace-loving man, chuckled 
and said that he had told her so from the first. 

Mrs. Torrington did not come back with Lady 
Camilla. On the day her cousin paid the hotel bill and 
packed up her boxes Dora declared that she was not 

303 


304 


A HARD LESSON. 


tired of London yet, and removed herself and her be- 
longings to a lodging in Ebnry Street. 

Lady Camilla could not quite understand her. It is 
true that she had not had much time or opportunity to 
inquire into her doings, having been too much taken 
up with her own affairs and her daily journeying to 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields; but still she was dimly conscious 
of the fact that the fair Dora was playing some little 
game of her own, in which she, Camilla, had no part 
or share. 

She had been given an abridged and very much 
garbled account of the final severance with Gilbert 
Nugent and of his departure for the antipodes. 

“ Oh I am glad he is gone !” declared Dora carelessly. 
“ I have come to your conclusion, Camilla, that the 
thing had lasted long enough. I went, of course, to 
wish him good-by, poor fellow, as he was going away 
so far. But really I felt quite glad he was going. He 
talked a great deal of nonsense about his love for me, 
and he actually wanted to get a license and marry 
me off at once, within twenty-four hours, so as to carry 
me away to New Zealand with him.” 

“ Did he really? I should not have believed it pos- 
sible that Gilbert could have desired such a thing,” 
remarked Lady Camilla dryly. 

“Yes, he did, my dear. A mad idea, was it not? 
And, of course, I couldn’t agree to such a proposition 
for a moment. And then he said he should come back 
and make me his wife in three years. So foolish of 
him, dear boy!” 

“ Why, I always thought that was what you wanted, 
Dora.” 

“ Oh no, my dear, not now ! I see that he is very 
sincerely attached to me still ; but it would not be fair 


A HARD LESSON. 


305 


to keep him waiting any longer, so I told him it must 
be farewell forever, and he had better settle and marry 
out there. I had a dreadful scene with him — he sobbed, 
Camilla, positively sobbed ; it was a terrible wrench to 
him. But there ! I am glad I have broken it off, and 
I feel sure I have done what is right, ” she added piously. 

Lady Camilla was free to believe or to doubt as much 
of this story as she chose ; but as a matter of fact she 
never heard any other account of what had taken place, 
and it was only by reason of her innate knowledge of 
her cousin’s character and peculiarities that she came 
to any conclusion whatever upon the subject. 

So she went back alone to Old Park, and Mrs. 
Torrington remained in Ebury Street, and she failed 
entirely to extract any reasons out of her for her refusal 
to return with her. 

“She is up to some new mischief, I’ll be bound,’’ 
thought Lady Camilla. “ Trust Dora for that. She will 
never leave off her plans and intrigues till she is in her 
coffin.” 

As to Lady Camilla, she resumed her quiet and 
uneventful life as the wife of a country squire, with 
her ordinary serene sense of self-satisfaction. 

She ordered her household, visited her poor people in 
the village, discussed the Easter doles with the clergy- 
man, and went on her little round of social duties with 
all her usual calm and orderly regularity. Her con- 
science, strange to say, did not trouble her in the very 
least as to a certain action of hers in Mr. Scarsdale’s 
back office. 

Why should it trouble her? She had righted a wrong. 
She had made straight that which had become crooked ; 
she had exercised the right of a deeply injured parent 
to work for her child’s benefit. 


20 


3 ° 6 


A HARD LESSON. 


If she ever thought about it at all, it was in this light 
that it presented itself to her mind. 

In course of time she received Sir Augustus Rolls ’s 
letter concerning the state of her brother’s health. As a 
matter of fact, Lady Camilla had long suspected the 
serious symptoms which had only recently developed 
themselves in his case; and she had always been of 
opinion that hunting and shooting, which of late years 
had become a great effort to him, were very bad for 
him. It was not so great a shock as it might be sup- 
posed for her, to hear that his complaint was incurable. 
The letter told her also of Lord Bainton’s immediate 
improvement, and of his departure with his wife for the 
South of France. 

“So far all is well,” thought Lady Camilla, with 
satisfaction. “ Poor dear Bainton ! It is very sad, of 
course, but now he has been fooled in his old age by 
that wretched girl, he is lost to me as a brother. I 
could never consent to meet her, or regard her as a 
sister-in-law. It is just as well that he should be out of 
England. Perhaps he will die abroad, and then Scars- 
dale will look for the will, and' it will not be forthcom- 
ing. Of course, as he would be the first person to be 
blamed, he will not say a word — he will declare that he 
knows of no other than the one that is there, and that 
nothing else was ever confided to his care. She will be 
abroad — she will learn that there is nothing left to her ; 
and that will be the end of it. Yes, certainly, that was 
a bold and clever stroke of mine. I don’t believe I 
shall ever have reason to regret it. ” 

One day, however, her serenity and peace of mind 
were broken up in a very unexpected manner. She was 
sitting sipping her tea one afternoon in the old oak- 
panelled hall, and smiling to herself as she counted 


A HARD LESSON. 


307 


up the days to the now fast approaching Easter holi- 
days, when her dear Ted would be coming home again, 
when the butler came to tell her that “ a person” was 
wishing to see her who had come to the back door. 

“ What sort of person, Grant?” 

“ An elderly person, my lady.” 

“ What does she want?” 

“ She will not state her business, my lady. She says 
it is private and confidential, and can only be told to 
your ladyship.” 

“ Hum ! I am rather suspicious of women who want 
to see me on business. Does she look like a beggar, 
Grant?” 

“ Oh, dear, no ! my lady ; not in the least. She is 
very handsomely dressed in a black silk gown and a 
velvet mantle.” 

“ All a blind, very likely. However, I have nothing 
to do just now, so I will see her if she likes.” 

Presently the “ person, ” who was decidedly elderly 
and stout, was ushered in. 

Lady Camilla put up her long-handled eye-glasses to 
look at her, but was sure that she had never seen her 
in her life before. 

“You wish to see me? What is your business, pray? 
And, first, tell me what is your name?” 

“ My name is Hogan, my lady. I had the honor of 
nursing your ladyship’s brother, the Earl of Bainton, 
through the greater part of his recent illness. ” 

Lady Camilla sat up. 

“ Come nearer, please. I can’t see you. You can 
take a chair. Well, Mrs. Hogan, what has brought 
you to see me? Does my brother owe you any 
money?” 

“ Certainly not, my lady. I was paid my money 


3°8 


A HARD LESSON. 


punctual, and I should never have taken the liberty of 
troubling you upon a paltry matter of money. ” 

“ What is it, then?” 

“ It is a communication, my lady, as I have to make 
to you — a communication of great importance, and as 
has lain on my conscience ever since I left his lordship’s 
service.” 

And then the woman looked at her fixedly and mean- 
ingly. Lady Camilla laughed, and . reached out her 
hand to her writing-table drawer. 

“ And for this ‘ communication, ’ I suppose you want to 
be paid, Mrs. Hogan?” 

“ If you please, my lady?” 

“ How much is it worth?” 

“ Twenty pounds. ” 

“ Great heavens! Twenty pounds? Are you mad? 
You don’t suppose I am going to give you twenty 
pounds?” 

“ Very well, my lady. You can take it or leave it as 
you like. ” And the woman got up as though to go. 

“ There can be nothing within your knowledge that 
is worth twenty pounds to me,” said Lady Camilla 
doggedly. And then she thought about her brother’s 
last will and how she had consigned it to the flames 
in Mr. Scarsdale’s office, and felt secure in her own 
position. 

“ Ah, well!” replied Mrs. Hogan, with an airy wave 
of her hand; “in course it’s not for me to say to the 
contrairy. Every lady knows her own affairs best, I 
dare say. But all I says, my lady, is that when a nurse 
as has the charge of a sick gentleman is made to wake 
him up out of a nice, healthy sleep in order that he 
may be made to write his own name down upon a sheet 
of paper — ” 


A HARD LESSON. 


309 


“What!” exclaimed Lady Camilla, springing to her 
feet excitedly. “ What on earth are yon talking about, 
woman? You are dreaming!” 

“ Oh, very well, my lady : perhaps I am dreaming, 
and perhaps I have nothing at all to tell you. I had 
better go and think,” said Mrs. Hogan, with offence. 

“No, no!” cried Lady Camilla soothingly, motion- 
ing her to a seat. “ Don’t go. Sit down, pray. I — I 
want to hear all about it very much — very much indeed, 
I assure you. Tell me at once what you mean.” 

Mrs. Hogan sat down, and a broad smile spread itself 
over her fat countenance. 

“ I’ll sit down with pleasure, in course, my lady; but 
as to telling you, why that depends upon whether you 
are going to give me what I ask. I must have my 
money, you know, or else I shall keep what I know to 
myself.” 

There was a moment of indecision in Lady Camilla’s 
mind. She put up her hand to her face — a torrent of 
confusing thoughts rushed tumultuously through her 
head. After all, what could the woman have to say that 
she did not know already? Was it worth twenty pounds 
to be told that Lord Bainton had made a will in his 
young wife’s favor, cutting out her son entirely, when 
nobody on earth knew so well as she did how powerless 
that will had now become? 

And then Mrs. Hogan played her last card. 

“ Of course, when a gentleman signs two wills on 
the same morning ” 

“ Two wills!” almost shrieked Lady Camilla. 

“ And when you listens — as in duty bound a nurse 
should, behind the door — and you hears the poor gentle- 
man saying to a lady as has no experience of nursing 
the sick, ‘I’ve no wish to do as you tell me. I only 


3 to 


A HARD LESSON. 


sign this tinder strong pressure. ’ And then her new 
ladyship, as has no idea how dangerous it is to agitate 
an invalid, calls me in to sign my name.” 

“My God!” gasped Lady Camilla. “ You mean that , 
after the first will he signed another — a second one — a 
codicil? 

“ I don’t know as that wasn’t the name of it, my 
lady.” 

Lady Camilla flew to her secretaire, dashed open a 
drawer, drew out a check-book, and filled in a check for 
twenty pounds. 

“ There, there!” she cried, breathlessly, and pale as 
death. “ Take it — take it, and now tell me all ! Oh ! 
to think of such wickedness — such cruel wickedness! 
Tell me everything you know — everything you heard 
and saw. A codicil ! Oh ! great heavens ! A codicil 
may undo everything ! It may ruin all ! A codicil ! 
My God ! A codicil !” 

And then, overcome by such emotion as she had never 
experienced before, Lady Camilla, for the first and only 
time in the whole course of her life, fell back in her 
chair, and fainted dead away. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


Dora Torrington sat by herself in her gloomy little 
lodging-room in Ebury Street, with her feet upon the 
fender, her eyes upon the fire and an open letter in her 
hands. 

It was not for nothing that the fair widow had con- 
demned herself to three weeks of Mrs. Blenkinsopp’s 
“ dining-room floor,” with the horsehair sofa and arm- 
chairs in the parlor, and the meagre deal-painted ap- 
pointments of the bedroom behind it ; not for nothing, 
assuredly, that she had endured ill-cooked soles and 
chops for dinner, and greasy slices of tepid bacon and 
weak tea for breakfast. She, who loved luxury and 
comfort and Marshall’s high-class cookery, would as- 
suredly not have unmurmuringly endured these various 
discomforts had not she been sustained through all by 
high hopes and lofty ambitions. 

And now, at last, the battle was fought — the prize 
was won, and the game was hers ! 

The letter that laid the heart, the hand, the fortune 
of Mr. Onesimus Bloggs at her feet was actually in her 
possession. Not five minutes ago the postman had 
dropped it in the letter-box, and Mrs. Blenkinsopp had 
brought it in to her upon a battered japanned tray. 

No wonder that Dora’s untasted bacon was slowly 
congealing in its own fat — that her watery tea stood 
getting cold, and her flabby toast was untouched. 

Was she glad, or was she sorry? Glad, that she had 
laid out so many shillings in going backwards and for- 


312 


A HARD LESSON. 


wards to the Cromwell Road — shillings which she could 
so ill afford, but which had brought her in so munifi- 
cent a return ! Or sorry, that all her hopes and dreams 
and vague longing after love and happiness were 
merged at length into the prosaic person of Onesimus 
Bloggs? 

Bah! what a name it was! Onesimus Bloggs! Mrs. 
Onesimus Bloggs! Yours sincerely, Dora Bloggs! 
She repeated it over and over to herself in all its 
aspects ; but there was no getting over it at all — it was 
horrible ! 

And she, who had been proud of her pretty name — of 
the good old family ring in the word “ Torrington ” — 
and who had longed only to alter it into the equally 
euphonious one of Nugent. It was a come-down, in- 
deed, to — Bloggs! 

She shuddered as she dwelt upon it. 

But, then, there was the money. And money, as we 
all know, like charity, covers a multitude of minor sins. 

The money, in this case, was right enough. She had 
no doubts there. She had been very careful ; she had 
precipitated nothing, and she had watched her man 
with the utmost caution. 

She had gone in the first instance on the strength of 
her primary invitation in the train to visit the picture 
gallery, in order to inspect the Turner sketches. Per- 
haps, but for Gilbert Nugent’s repudiation of her, she 
would have forgotten Onesimus Bloggs entirely ; per- 
haps, had she been able in any fashion to win him back, 
the little red-headed gentleman, who had pressed his 
attentions upon her on the journey to town, would have 
passed out of her memory altogether. But when, stung 
with mortified vanity, and smarting under the lash of 
Nugent’s cruel words, she had turned her back upon 


A HARD LESSON. 


313 

him forever, there had come upon her such a rage of 
reckless fury — such a wild desire to throw herself into 
anything that should soothe and restore her shattered 
self-esteem — that she fell upon the first thing that came 
into her head with a sort of hungry avidity. She would 
not go mourning for Gilbert Nugent, she swore to her- 
self ; she would show him how little she cared ; and she 
would show the world that she was independent of him. 

And so in this hour of her baffled hopes she bethought 
her of Mr. Bloggs’s card, and despatched a little note to 
the address in Cromwell Road, which filled the small 
soul of the little millionaire with delight. 

When she got there she perceived at once that Mr. 
Bloggs must be a very wealthy man. The large, well- 
appointed house — it was, in fact, two houses thrown 
into one — the powdered flunkeys, the rare and beauti- 
ful antique furniture ; buhl and Chippendale and Louis 
Quinze of priceless value ; the rich and costly hangings 
and carpets, and the pictures themselves, which she 
had ostensibly come to see, all proclaimed her host to 
be not only a man of money but also a man of taste. 
She had taken everything in minutely, although dis- 
creetly, with her sharp and experienced eyes. Then 
she accepted an invitation to lunch, and had been intro- 
duced not only to Mr. Bloggs’s excellent French cook 
and unimpeachable wine, but also to his sister, Lady 
Mullins, an ex-lady mayoress, invited by her brother 
to play propriety for the occasion. 

Lady Mullins had been graciousness itself — had 
coaxed, and caressed, and flattered her, and, in a post 
prandial moment of confidence, expatiated to her on 
the grandeur of her brother’s country place, and on the 
sorrow it gave her to see two such beautiful houses and 
such an ample fortune as “ dear Onny’s” without a mis- 


314 


A HARD LESSON. 


tress at the head of affairs to make his homes cheerful 
and happy for him. 

After that there had been frequent entertainments 
and festivities, at all of which Mrs. Torrington was an 
honored guest. Theatre parties and cosy little suppers 
afterwards, friendly dinners and stately banquets, all 
at the expense of Mr. Bloggs, were all evidently got up 
and arranged entirely and expressly for Dora’s edifica- 
tion. And through these frequent meetings there ran 
always the undertone of the ex-mayoress’s gentle recom- 
mendations. How much she wished that Onny would 
find a wife. How comfortable it would make him — he 
was so domestic — such a dear, good fellow ; so sure to 
make a perfect husband. If only he could find some 
charming woman worthy of him — not a girl ; girls 
would hardly appreciate him — but some clever, pretty, 
and still attractive woman of the world. 

“ She need not have a penny, dear Mrs. Torrington,” 
continued the affectionate and assiduous sister, warming 
with her subject. “ Onny has more money than he 
knows how to spend — lucky fellow ! But she must be a 
thorough lady, and a woman of sense and refinement, 
and she must be well connected and do credit to him. 
Ah! they are not so easy to find as you may fancy,” 
added the good lady, with a sigh, in answer to some 
murmured commonplaces which the widow managed to 
articulate somewhat consciously concerning the facility 
with which . such ladies might be discovered. “ A 
woman suited to make my dear brother happy will be a 
pearl indeed of great price ; he is so fastidious, and his 
heart must go with his taste. Onny will never marry 
where he cannot love. ” 

And now at last, after three weeks of these prelimin- 


A HARD LESSON. 315 

aries, the millionaire had at length declared himself, 
and his letter of proposal was in her hands. 

It was not a bad letter, take it altogether. If it was 
not particularly sentimental or poetical, it had the merit 
at least of being honest and straightforward. Mr. 
Bloggs had admired her, he said, from the first moment 
he had set eyes upon her in the railway carriage. He 
was looking out for a wife — he wanted a wife with looks 
and good family, whom at the same time he could be 
fond of. He knew he was not of exalted parentage — 
his father had kept a large wholesale warehouse at 
Clerkenwell — but he had had a good education, and he 
trusted that his dear Mrs. Torrington would overlook 
his humble origin, more especially as she already knew 
his sister, who was his only living relative, and who had 
on her part made a perfectly respectable marriage. 
And he wound up his letter by remarking that he 
wouldn’t trouble her to write, but would call for his 
answer himself at an early hour. 

And even as Dora was reading the letter over for the 
third time a brougham dashed up to the door, and a 
little, foxy gentleman jumped briskly out and rang the 
bell loudly. 

For one moment of real pain and of bitterest regret 
the handsome form of Gilbert Nugent flashed madly 
back before her — Nugent, as he had looked when first 
she knew him, when his eyes had been full of love, and 
every tone of his voice a caress. “ Oh, Gilbert ! my 
love, my king!” cried the wretched woman, starting to 
her feet and wringing her hands together in impotent 
despair, whilst a mist of burning tears welled up into 
her eyes. Oh, why had she not been brave and true, 
then, in those old days, when his young heart had beat 
for her alone? Why had she put his honest love from 


316 


A HARD LESSON. 


her with cold and selfish worldliness until she had taught 
him not only to weary of her, but also to despise her ? 

Ah, shattered dream of the past! Ah, wreck of all 
that was good and honest within her ! 

Too late now — too late! He was gone from her for- 
ever. It was not the ship that was bearing him away 
over the seas — not the lengthy abyss of distance that 
stretched every moment between them — but the great 
gulf between souls that have once been one, and that 
are now set apart forever by a mountain load of sin and 
error. That was what divided her for all time, into 
eternity itself, from the man whom she had first played 
with and then dragged down, and who had now escaped 
from her forever. 

And the footsteps outside in the narrow passage drew 
near to her door. Another minute, and the anguish 
and poignancy of her useless regrets were at an end. 

Mr. Onesimus Bloggs, smiling anxiously out of his 
watery little eyes, with his thin lips twisted nervously 
up under his straggling yellow mustache, stood before 
her with outstretched hands, awaiting her answer to his 
proposal. 

Well! it was some small satisfaction an hour or so 
later to sit down and write her news to Lady Camilla — 
to describe her prospects in glowing colors — the mag- 
nificent house in Cromwell Road, the great wealth of 
her future husband ; to dilate upon all she had heard of 
his beautiful place in Warwickshire, and to dwell upon 
the luxury and the splendor she meant to live in ; of 
the entertainments she would give in town and country ; 
of the manifold delights which the golden key of money 
was about to open to her. And then she was fortunate 
before she closed her letter to be able to add a descrip- 
tion of the magnificent diamonds — two bracelets, a star, 


A HARD LESSON. 


317 


and two rings — which Mr. Bloggs, with prompt gener- 
osity, ordered up as a token of his affection from his 
jeweller’s as soon as ever he had gone away with Dora’s 
consenting kiss upon his lips. The package arrived 
whilst Dora was still writing her letter, and added con- 
siderably to her pleasure and satisfaction in her decision. 

“ After all!” she said to herself, as she tried on the 
glittering jewels before the shabby little chimney-glass, 
and turned her fair head from side to side to admire 
their effect, “ after all, money is a splendid thing — 
the best thing of all, perhaps ; and if I am clever and 
play my cards properly I have no doubt I shall be able 
to pull Bloggs up with me into decent society, and we 
shall get on very well together. The world is very 
ready to welcome wealthy people. My friends will all 
like me very much better and make much more of me 
than tney have ever done hitherto. ” 

Dora’s intuition was right. Her friends, from Lady 
Camilla* downwards, were delighted. They flooded her 
with congratulations and good wishes, and presently, 
when it was announced in the Morning Post how soon 
she was going to be married, they inundated her with 
wedding presents. 

A month had scarcely gone by when, in the presence 
of a large and crowded assembly, an eminently fashion- 
able wedding took place at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square. 
The church was filled with well-known and titled people, 
and the soul of Onesimus Bloggs swelled with pride at 
the many illustrious persons who had gathered together 
to do honor to his bride. 

The reception afterwards at the Alexandra Hotel, 
given and presided over by Mr. and Lady Camilla Grey- 
son, was a gay and brilliant assembly ; and Mr. and Mrs. 
Onesimus Bloggs went off on the first stage of their 


A HARD LESSON. 


318 

honeymoon amidst the vociferous cheers and hearty 
blessings of a large crowd of well-dressed persons, most 
of whom had never seen the bridegroom, and hardly 
ever seen the bride before, but who all promised them- 
selves henceforward to become their best and most inti- 
mate friends. 

Such is the power of money! And such the founda- 
tion of friendship in the hearts of that sordid multitude 
who, until the end of the world, shall flock in countless 
numbers to the worship of the Golden Calf. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


The marble villa upon the shores of the Mediterranean 
lay silent as death under the star-spangled vault of sap- 
phire blue. The moonlight flooded the long steps of the 
terrace and the slender columns of the veranda with an 
unearthly whiteness, and there was not a breath of wind 
to stir the drooping wreaths of vine and of jessamine 
that trailed their graceful festoons all over the fagade of 
the house. 

The windows stood wide open, for it was April, and 
already the warm southern sun had changed the breath 
of spring into a foretaste of summer balminess. All 
day long it had been hot and breezeless, whilst even 
now the scent of a thousand flowers hung heavy on 
the air. 

From the long French windows opening upon the ter- 
race the yellow light of the lamps within streamed out 
in narrow streaks and lay across the grass. Within the 
room no one was stirring. Only the lamps, with their 
light-colored paper shades, and the pretty objects of 
china and silver, and the embroideries and photograph 
frames, and vases of flowers scattered upon the tables, 
betrayed the dainty appointments of a woman’s room. 

Behind the shadow of the clump of mimosas on the 
little lawn outside a ' youth stood watching the house. 
And as he watched he saw at length the slender form of 
a white-robed woman come slowly through an inner door 
into the warm-lit drawing-room. She looked tired and 
sad, and there were great circles round her eyes that 

319 


320 


A HARD LESSON. 


told of tears and of sleepless nights. She wandered 
round the room apparently in search of something, and 
a^ she turned from one to the other of the little tables 
the light fell fully upon her pale face. 

“ She doesn’t look a bit different!” murmured the boy 
to himself; “only just wretched. I wonder why the 
mater says she is so bad, and has done so many wicked 
things ? I don’t think she looks a bit wicked — poor Nell ! 
Only used up and dead beat^ ” and then he walked quickly 
across the garden and went up the steps of the terrace. 

The night was so still that Helen heard the footfall, 
and came eagerly forward. She stood at one of the 
open windows and peered intently out into the darkness, 
so that she saw the boy’s dim figure as it came out of 
the moonlight into the shadow of the house. 

“Ted!” she cried, in a ringing whisper. “Is that 
you?” 

“All right, Nell — it is I. Am I in time?” 

“Thank God, yes!” she answered, as she drew him 
into the room with both hands. “ He has been asking 
for you all day long. I was so dreadfully afraid you 
would be too late. ” 

“ Oh, Nell! is it as bad as that? Is there no hope?” 

She shook her head sadly. “ He is dying fast,” she 
answered brokenly. 

Ted sank upon a chair and buried his face in his hands. 

“ Oh, Nell ! he was always so good to me ! Dear Uncle 
Bainton ! Why, it seems only a few months ago that 
we were all out hunting together, you know, and he as 
jolly as ever you like, and enjoying it as much as any- 
body; and now to think he is dying! Oh, it’s awful!” 

“ Dear Ted — don’t cry. You mustn’t, indeed, give 
way. He wants to see you so much, and it would upset 
him if you were to be like this. Just now he has 


A HARD LESSON. 


3 31 


dropped into a doze; but he will wake soon. He never 
sleeps long — the pain wakes him up ; and then I want 
you to come in to see him. He has done nothing but 
ask for you ever since I sent you the telegram.” 

“ I came off at once. The mater didn’t want me to 
go. She said — ” And then he pulled up and stopped 
short. 

“ What did she say, Ted?” asked Helen, laying her 
hand upon his shoulder ; and then, as he made no answer, 
she went on: “I, am afraid I can guess. She told you 
that I was a bad woman, and had plotted to deprive you 
of your uncle’s favor, and that. my telegram was nothing 
but a trick — ” 

“ Why, Nell! how on earth did you guess?” 

Helen gave a little mirthless laugh below her breath. 
“ Ah ! I am an enchantress, you see, Ted. And do you 
think me a bad woman, Ted, who only married your dear 
uncle to enrich herself at your expense?” And she took 
the boy’s chin in her hand as he sat in the chair below 
her, and turned his honest, ugly, freckled face up to 
hers. 

“ Dear Teddie, I wish you would trust me. You were 
my only friend when I first came to Old Park. I was 
so lonely and friendless. I should have been wretched 
without you. Do you suppose I’ve forgotten all those 
days, or that I could repay your brotherly kindness and 
sympathy by playing such a black, bad trick upon you? 
Did you ever know me do a mean and cowardly thing 
before?” 

“No; you always did go as straight as a die across 
country, ” admitted Ted, with generous frankness ; “ even 
the first day I took you out, when you were in such a 
devil of a funk, you never shirked it one bit, and a fel- 
low that goes straight across country doesn’t go crooked 


3 22 


A HARD LESSON. 


across life either. At least, that is my experience, 
Nell?” 

Helen smiled at the characteristic simile. “Am I 
to understand then, Ted, that you believe in me, and 
trust me?” 

Ted clutched herh and impulsively ; “ I trust you with 
all my heart, Nell.” 

“ Even if things at first don’t seem quite what you 
wish, you still wont lose faith in me?” 

“Never, Nell. I wont believe a word of what the 
mater told me. It’s not that I care about uncle’s 
money one rap. I hope I am not such a cad as to care 
about money,” added the boy loftily. “What hurt me 
was to think that you, who had sworn to be pals with 
me, and be like a sister to me, should be plotting and 
scheming to make uncle hate me and die without wanting 
to see me again. That’s what’s made me mad.” 

“ Does it look like that — when I telegraphed to you to 
come out?” 

“ That’s exactly what I said to the mater. But she 
wouldn’t listen. She said you only did it as a trick, and 
that when I got here I should find you wouldn’t let me 
see uncle, or speak to him.” 

Helen took Ted’s hand and passed it under her arm. 
His honest candor made her very happy. The indig- 
nation with which he repudiated his mother’s cruel 
accusations and suspicions of her endeared him to her. 

“Come, then,” she said to him, “we will go into his 
room at once, and you shall see for yourself whether I 
am such a monster as your mother makes me out to be.” 

Propped up upon his pillows, upon a narrow bed, the 
Earl of Bainton lay dying. There was no more recovery 
possible to him on earth. The gasping breath, the livid 
grayness of the drawn and altered features, the sunken 


A HARD LESSON. 


323 


eyes, all told the same solemn story — he had not now 
many hours to live. Too weak to move even a finger — 
almost too weak to speak — still, there passed a smile of 
recognition across his face as his nephew, deeply moved 
at the sight of him, came forward and stood by his 
bedside. 

The boy had never seen a death-bed before ; he trem- 
bled and turned cold. 

“Sit down, Ted,” whispered the sick man faintly. 
“I am glad you have come. ” 

Noiselessly Helen stole out of the room again, and 
left the uncle and nephew alone together. 

For many minutes Lord Bainton said nothing, and 
Ted began to be afraid he must have lost consciousness, 
but the dying man was only thinking deeply — collecting 
all his remaining strength to say what he wanted to say 
to him. 

Presently he began to speak — 

“ I dare say, my boy you think I have been an old fool 
to marry a young wife when I had one foot in the grave. ” 

“ No, uncle, you had a perfect right to do as you liked, ” 
answered Ted stoutly, his clear young voice ringing dis- 
tinctly through the silent room. 

The thin fingers closed one instant lightly upon his. 

“ Thank you, Ted. Well, it would be natural enough 
that I should leave everything to her. She is my wife. 
I love her ; and you are not my son. My title becomes 
extinct with me, and you are not my heir in any sense 
of the word.” 

“ I know that, sir. I never looked upon myself as 
your heir, although my mother — ” 

“ I know what your mother thought — and what she has 
taught you to expect. Perhaps it was natural enough. 
I should not have blamed her for it. I could have for- 


3 2 4 


A HARD LESSON. 


given that. What I could not forgive was her treatment 
of my dear Helen. That I swore I would never forgive, 
either in this world or the next. Well, I made a new 
will ; it was on my wedding morning — Scarsdale drew 
it up, and I signed it just before the ceremony. In it 
I left everything I possess on earth unconditionally to 
my bride, and only a very small legacy to you. Are 
you very angry, nephew?” 

“ No, sir; but I’m glad you left me a legacy. It was 
good of you to remember me at all at such a time.” 

“ Well, Ted, that will will be acte£ upon the moment 
the breath is out of my body. Scarsdale has it. My 
wife is my sole residuary legatee. Venner, the parson, 
and Rolls, the doctor, are the executors. You are to 
telegraph to Scarsdale for that will the moment I am 
dead, and I trust to you to see that no obstacles are 
raised by your mother to the provisions of that will 
being carried out.” 

“ You may trust me, uncle.” 

The fading eyes glanced at him quickly, and a little 
flicker of excitement revived in them as they did so. 

“ You don’t care about the money then, Ted ? You 
are not disappointed that you are cut out by Lady Bain- 
ton? Mind, I had made a will in ’88 entirely in your 
favor. Scarsdale has got that, too, I suppose; but it’s 
so much waste paper now. You are not disappointed?” 

“ I should be a hypocrite, sir, if I said I was not. Of 
course I would like to have lots of money — every one 
does, I suppose. But I repeat it, — you have every right 
to leave your money where you like; and I’m so fond 
of Helen. She is such a good sort, and I don’t grudge 
her one penny of it. ” 

The earl smiled feebly and pressed his hand once more. 

“ Well, my boy, you will perhaps find some day that 


A HARD LESSON. 


325 


after all I've not done you so much harm. You must 
be patient, and you must wait, and if in time you find 
out anything to your advantage, why, remember when 
you do that it is not me you must thank, but Lady Bain- 
ton, who did it for you entirely of her own accord/’ 

This speech of course was quite enigmatical to Ted. 
In fact his uncle’s voice became so feeble as he concluded 
it, and his words came out one by one so haltingly, that 
he scarcely heard it all, or caught the gist of it. 

He waited for a few minutes, but Lord Bainton’s eyes . 
closed, and he seemed too utterly exhausted to say any 
more. 

Presently, after what seemed to Ted to be a very long 
time, his eyelids opened quickly, a sort of spasm passed 
across his features, and he gasped out hoarsely — 

“ Helen! Helen! Come to me.” 

Ted rushed to the door, and in another moment Helen, 
pale and breathless, flew swiftly in and sank on her knees 
by her husband’s bedside. 

He just knew her, put up his wasted hand for one 
moment to her face, whispered her name once more, 
and then sank back into an unconsciousness from which 
he never awoke again. 

All night long they watched beside him — one on either 
side of the bed. He never moved, and only the labored 
breath, drawn sometimes at long and uneven intervals, 
told the watchers that he was still alive. 

And just as the first rays of the rising sun fell in a 
glittering shaft through the half-drawn curtains across 
the chamber of death, John Edward Ravenstoke, sixth 
Earl of Bainton, with a long fluttering sigh in which 
there was no pain or terror, drew his last breath on earth, 
and was numbered with his fathers. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


“ My dear Ted, why on earth cannot yon be reason- 
able and accept the situation?” 

“ Accept the situation ! Why you must be mad, 
mother — quite mad, to suggest such a thing!” 

Ted was stalking about the room, wild with excite- 
ment and agitation. Lady Camilla was seated calmly 
by the breakfast-table. 

The scene was in a London hotel — the Metropole, 
whither Lady Camilla Greyson had come on the previous 
evening to meet her son on his return from Italy. 

Ted was crimson in the face. He could not eat any 
breakfast ; he could not sit still in his chair ; he could 
only rampage up and down, and run his hands wildly 
and distractedly through his curly hair. 

“ It’s impossible ! impossible !” he cried, for the fiftieth 
time. 

Lady Camilla shrugged her shoulders. “ Not impos- 
sible at all — since it happens to be the case.” 

“ But I tell you,” cried Ted, stopping for a moment 
in front of her, “ I tell you that my poor uncle told me 
so himself — he told me he had made a will leaving every 
single sixpence, with the exception of a small legacy to 
myself, to Helen ; and .that he had signed this will on 
his wedding day.” 

“ Well, he must have destroyed it afterward, because 
there is no such will in existence.” 

“ There must be. He said that Scarsdale had got it.” 

“ The only will Scarsdale has is the one that is dated 
326 


A HARD LESSON. 


327 


1888, and which leaves you sole heii; to your uncle’s 
property, in trust to me until your twenty-first birthday. ” 

“ But when I tell you that he mentioned that other 
will to me also, and said it was now so much waste 
paper — ” 

Lady Camilla went on sipping her tea thoughtfully. 

She was very angry with Ted. What business had 
the boy to interfere? Things had been arranging 
themselves admirably since her brother’s death ; every- 
thing seemed settling down quietly. The earl had 
desired to be buried where he died, without pomp or 
ostentation, in the sun-bathed English cemetery that 
overlooked the blue Mediterranean; and Ted, as was 
right and fitting, had stayed on, in order to follow his 
uncle’s remains to the grave. The widow had stated 
her intention of remaining at the villa for the present, 
and of spending the whole summer in retirement among 
the mountains of northern Itaty. Nothing could have 
worked better. 

What Mr. Scarsdale’s feelings had been when he 
unlocked the safe which had contained the last will 
and testament of his late client and realized that the 
most recent of the two wills had absolutely and utterly 
vanished, and that only one was left — the old one of 
two years back — may be conjectured, but will never be 
rightly known, because no one was present to overhear 
his exclamations of horror and dismay, or to witness the 
subsequent perturbation of his mind. But if his 
thoughts were inscrutable his actions were decided 
enough. What the much-perplexed and harrowed solici- 
tor did was to telegraph to Lady Camilla, bidding her 
peremptorily to come to town. Lady Camilla, who had, 
of course, expected the summons, obeyed it, with, it 
must be confessed, a beating heart. She came up to 


3 28 


A HARD LESSON. 


London by the first train, and drove straight from the 
station to Lincoln’s Inn. 

What passed there between herself and Mr. Scarsdale 
is also wrapped in mystery and obscurity; but Lady 
Camilla knew her man, and had been prepared to play 
her game with boldness and with decision. Anyhow, 
although the interview was long and at one time very 
stormy, it ended in peace and harmony. Mr. Scarsdale 
became, in the end, convinced that he would not be the 
loser by holding his .tongue concerning an unfortunate 
transaction which Lady Camilla averred, with much 
solemnity, had been purely and solely accidental. She 
had, it is true — she confessed to him — found the key and 
examined the will, but it was really quite by chance 
that, bending over the fire to warm her frozen feet while 
she had been looking through her brother’s papers, 
she had dropped one of them — at the time she hardly 
knew which — into the fender, where a red-hot coal 
that had appositely fallen out of the grate in the very 
nick of time, promptly and opportunely reduced it to 
ashes. 

With this wonderful and far-fetched story the solicitor 
found himself compelled to be content,- especially as in 
order to secure his discretion in the matter Lady Camilla 
transferred to him sundry bonds and railway stocks of 
which she had sole and undisputed possession. So that 
he was not left unrewarded for his reluctant promise of 
help and secresy. 

When this weighty matter was arranged, a further 
danger presented itself. Lady Camilla remembered 
Mrs. Hogan’s revelation, and trembled; but as the days 
went on, and nothing happened, she began to breathe 
anew. An official letter, stating the existence of one 
will only — that of 1 888 — was written by Messrs. Scars- 


A HARD LESSON. 


329 


dale to the widow on the Riviera, and was received by 
her just after Ted’s departure. Of this letter she had 
taken no notice at all, nor had any rumors of a codicil 
reached the anxious ears of the two confederates at 
home; so that Lady Camilla began to share Scarsdale’s 
opinion that Mrs. Hogan’s story was nothing but a suc- 
cessful hoax in order to extort money. Everything 
therefore seemed to be working well when Ted came 
back and, by his impetuous and rash asservations and 
protestations, threatened to overturn all his mother’s 
well-laid schemes. 

“My dear Ted,” she said to him, controlling with 
difficulty her rising temper, “ you really are a child ! 
Why do you interfere with things you cannot possibly 
understand? Leave everything to me, my dear.” 

“ I am not a child — not such a child as not to under- 
stand what common honesty means. When a man with 
almost his last breath tells me that he has made such 
and such an arrangement, and that such and such a 
will exists — ” 

“ My dear Ted, your poor uncle’s mind must have 
been wandering. You say yourself he was in his last 
moments. ” 

“ His mind was no more wandering than yours is. 
He was perfectly clear and collected.” 

“ But, Ted, there is no such will. What is the use of 
going on saying it when Mr. Scarsdale, who knew all 
your uncle’s affairs, says he has not got any other will 
save the one of 1888. I am sure, instead of making all 
this fuss, you ought to be delighted. Your uncle always 
treated you as his heir, and you have every right to his 
money.” 

“I have no right to it, mother,” cried Ted emphati- 
cally, “ and, what is more, I will not touch one single 


33 ° 


A HARD LESSON. 


penny of it ! I shall give it all back to Helen. It is 
hers; it ought to be hers.” 

“ Really, Ted, you make me very angry,” cried Lady 
Camilla, fairly losing her temper at last. “ How can 
you be so childish and so silly? There is such a thing 
as law, as trustees, as all sorts of formalities which you 
have no control over at all at your age. How can you 
talk of giving your fortune away. It will not be yours 
till you are twenty-one.” 

“ If I may not do that,” answered the boy doggedly, 
“ I will not at any rate spend one sixpence of it. There 
are neither laws nor trustees on earth that can force me 
to take what I know is not mine, and what I also know 
to belong to some one else. ” 

“You are positively insupportable, Ted! Wait and 
see what Mr. Scarsdale will say to you. He will be here 
in a few minutes. Ah, here he is — punctual to the 
moment.” 

The hotel servant ushered the solicitor into the room. 

“ Good morning, Lady Camilla. Ah, my dear young 
friend, here you are back safe. Allow me to offer you 
my warmest congratulations upon your accession to 
wealth. ” And Scarsdale held out his hand to the young 
fellow. 

But Ted held his hands resolutely behind his back. 

“You need not congratulate me, Mr. Scarsdale, be- 
cause I shall not take my uncle’s money. He left it all 
to his wife.” 

“ My dear Mr. Edward, no such will is in my pos- 
session.” 

“Very well — then, you had better institute a search 
for it,” continued Ted decisively. 

The solicitor looked uneasily at Lady Camilla, who 
was crimson with rage and mortification. 


A HARD LESSON. 


331 


“Ted is very ridiculous, ” she said, with an attempt 
at playfulness; “he has all sorts of romantic and quixo- 
tic ideas. I think we must pack him off back to Eton, 
and manage his affairs without consulting him, Mr. 
Scarsdale.” 

Ted rounded on the lawyer with a sort of fury. “ I 
am a boy now,” he said sternly, “ but I shall not always 
be a boy! I will not touch my uncle’s money, because 
he has left it not to me, but to his widow; and because 
I promised him on his deathbed that I would stand by 
her and see justice done to her. And I swear before 
God, if you do not produce that will which Lord Bainton 
gave into your possession on his wedding day, that the 
very instant I attain my majority and am able to act for 
myself in the matter, I will have you arrested on a charge 
of conspiracy and foul play.” 

And then he swung himself out of the room, slamming 
the door loudly and angrily behind him. 

Lady Camilla and Scarsdale were left looking blankly 
into each other’s faces. 

“This — is — is very unexpected!” stammered the law- 
yer, who had turned as white as a sheet. 

Lady Camilla laughed shortly and angrily. “ Don’t 
•be uneasy — leave him to me. That wretched woman 
has bewitched him evidently ; but he will not be twenty- 
one for four years. I shall get him into a reasonable 
frame of mind long before then. What is more important 
just now is about that codicil. Have you heard from 
Lady Bainton?” 

“Not a line. She evidently acquiesces. She has 
money of her own, you see. She probably imagines that 
he left her nothing at all. And the story of the codicil 
is, as I told you, a mere fabrication on the part of that 
nurse, in order to extract money from you.” 


33 2 


A HARD LESSON. 


“Wretched woman! I should like to give her in 
charge!” fumed Lady Camilla. 

“ Ahem ! Better perhaps — your ladyship will excuse 
me for quoting the saying — ‘Better let sleeping dogs 
lie. 

Meanwhile Ted was striding away down the Strand 
to a certain humble lodging-house, with which he was 
familiar in his little London excursions, and where some- 
times he had his letters addressed — bills he did not 
want his father to know of — and, perhaps, occasionally 
a little harmless love-letter or two. 

Here he found awaiting him what he expected — a 
foreign letter ; and, pouncing upon it greedily, he tore 
it open. When he had read it, however, he could not 
very well understand it. 

Dear Old Ted : — Do not be unhappy when you hear 
about your dear uncle’s will. There has been some 
mistake, and I know that you will be horribly upset 
about it. But, perhaps, things will turn out differently 
in the end. Just accept everything for the present and 
keep quiet, and I want you to make me a promise. On 
the ioth of October it will be six months from the date of 
your uncle’s death. On that day I wish to see you. I 
shall arrive in England on the 8th or 9th, and will go 
straight to Portman Square, if you allow me to put up 
there for a few days. Now I want you to promise that 
you will meet me there on the ioth. I have something 
of great importance to tell you which must be told on 
that day. Meanwhile, God bless you, dear boy; con- 
tinue to believe in me and trust me. 

Your affectionate 

Helen. 

Ted rushed into a post-office wildly, and with the 
impetuosity of his seventeen years sent off the follow- 
ing telegram — 


A HARD LESSON. 


333 


“ Will meet you, Portman Square, October ioth, but 
will not touch penny of your money.” 

And then, as he walked away leisurely down the 
Strand, on his way back to the Hotel Metropole, he said 
once again to himself in the terse vernacular of his age — 
“But I’m blowed if I can see any meaning or sense in 
it, for all that!” 


CHAPTER XL. AND LAST. 


If six months be a long space of time to look forward 
to, it is often marvellous how quickly it seems to have 
slipped away when we come to look back upon it, more 
especially if it has not been marked in our private history 
by any very exciting chances or changes of fortune. 

To the principal characters of this story the six months 
that followed the death and burial of the last Earl of 
Bainton passed swiftly and monotonously away. 

In London Mr. and Mrs. Onesimus Bloggs had spent 
a season of fast and furious dissipation, and were now 
recruiting their forces in the so-called seclusion of their 
country mansion, which was crammed from attic to cellar 
with a constant succession of guests. Dora had rushed 
ardently into the gay vortex of fashion. Her dresses, 
her diamonds, her equipages, and her entertainments 
had been the talk of the town and the joy of all those 
little society journals that delight in retailing the petty 
personal details of other people’s concerns. The pretty 
Mrs. Bloggs was respectfully mentioned on all sides as 
a leader of fashion, whilst her ugly little husband, whom 
she dragged about everywhere in her train, and whose 
purse-strings she opened so widely, was systematically 
and significantly ignored altogether. 

Far away in New Zealand, Gilbert Nugent, faulty 
hero as he has proved himself to be during the course 
of this story, was putting his shoulder manfully to the 
wheel and trying by hard work, by patience, and by 
penitence for the past, to render himself daily more 

334 


A HARD LESSON. 


335 


worthy of a certain golden hope which had dangled 
faintly and far away upon the distant horizon of his 
future ever since that hour when, in an old copy of the 
Tunes of many weeks back, his eyes had alighted by 
chance upon a certain important notice in the obituary. 

Ted Greyson had also spent the six months in hard 
work of another kind. Ted had developed in a very 
short time into a man, and a very decided man, too. He 
refused to return to Eton; he refused to receive the 
ample allowance which his mother pressed upon him to 
take as his due ; and he refused absolutely and utterly 
to live at Old Park or even to meet Lady Camilla at all. 

Instead of leading the life of an idle young man of 
fortune, he begged his father to allow him to go to a 
private tutor who lived at a quiet village on the Devon- 
shire coast, and who coached young men for the army 
and for the civil services. He was determined, he told 
his father, to enter a profession of some kind, and to 
earn his own living. “I know, sir,” he said to him, 
“ that you have been in pecuniary difficulties for a long 
time back, and I know that Old Park must soon be let 
or sold, and that I shall never be able to live as you have 
done upon the estate. I do not wish to be a burden upon 
you, and I want to make my own way in the world. If 
you keep me and give me the means of working for the 
next two years, I promise you that it shall not be my 
fault if I don’t pass these examinations, after which, 
once started, I will never cost you another penny.” 

“ I honor your independence, my dear boy, but for 
the life of me I cannot see the object of it,” had been 
his father’s reply. “Your uncle’s will leaves you an 
ample fortune ; your mother is in a position to make you 
a handsome allowance, and on the day you are twenty- 
one you will be able, if the fancy takes you that way, 


336 


A HARD LESSON. 


to make ducks and drakes of about seven or eight thou- 
sand a year ! Why, therefore, talk of a profession, or 
of working for your living?” 

Ted was silent for a moment or two. His feelings 
against his mother was one of bewildered indignation. 
He could not understand her. He believed that Scars- 
dale had made away with the will for some reasons of 
his own ; but it had not entered into his head to imagine 
that his mother was in any way a partisan in his wicked- 
ness. But he was deeply grieved and disappointed to 
think that she had been so ready to wink at a possible 
crime, and to take possession for him of a fortune to 
which she must know, at her heart, he had no right. 
Nevertheless, he did not wish to impugn her honor and 
rectitude to his father, to whom he had never disclosed 
his uncle’s dying words — not caring to make possible 
trouble between his -parents. 

So he only said, very simply and quietly, “ I do not 
want poor uncle’s money, father. I have told my mother 
that I will not take it. It is my firm belief that he 
must have made some provision for his widow, and that 
some documents will one day come to light which will 
materially alter the position of affairs. I would, there- 
fore, rather prepare to train myself to become a poor 
man. ” 

So Ted had his own way, and went down to Devon- 
shire, and worked hard among a number of other young 
fellows, much to the sorrow of his mother, who mourned 
over his absence and over what she called his “ingrati- 
tude ” with the bitterest pain. 

The Earl of Bainton’s will was duly proved, and came 
into operation ; but the money lay in the bank untouched, 
and accumulated there, and Ted took his small quarterly 
allowance from his father, and would have none of it. 


A HARD LESSON. 


337 


Meanwhile, Helen, Countess of Bainton, had found a 
temporary home among the olive-clad slopes of the 
Italian mountains. Far below her pretty villa lay a 
village clustering among the green meadows and a 
placid lake of turquoise blue, while opposite her win- 
dows a long range of snowy Alps recorded the rising and 
setting of the daily sun to her in a succession of gor- 
geous and ever- varying panoramas. She was for a long 
time quite alone here with her servants; and she was 
very sad and dull. Often she mused sorrowfully enough 
upon the hard lesson which life had brought so bitterly 
home to her — of the small benefit that money brings — of 
its futility and of its utter powerlessness to give one hour 
of real peace or happiness to the soul. 

“ I had rather be a beggar and be loved, and have 
some one to love me, than be a millionaire and be with- 
out one true heart to rest upon !” That was the constant 
burden of her melancholy thoughts. 

For what had her accession of fortune brought to her — 
that fortune which in her girlish ignorance a year ago 
had seemed to open every thing in life to her dazzled 
imagination ? Bitter enmi ty — rancorous spite — false and 
mercenary friends — and of that love she needed so much 
only the faithful affection of one kind old man who was 
dead, and the impulsive partisanship of a boy who was 
too young to be of any real comfort to her. 

And what of that other, who was so far away at the 
other side of the world? What of him whose love had 
been fraught with peril, and whose soul had only looked 
into her soul once, and that at the very moment of part- 
ing from her forever? 

Was it likely that Gilbert Nugent, who had judged 
her so harshly and known her so little, would remain 
true to that transient gleam of a spoilt and wasted love? 

22 


33 § 


A HARD LESSON. 


“ Men change so quickly,” she thought, as she watched 
the red flush of sunset on the mountain tops pale and 
fade away into evening’s blue and gray. “ The first 
ardor of their feelings lasts such a little while ! It is 
like that glow upon the Alps, that is so splendid for a 
little time, but that so soon is over. There ! it is gone 
now — and all the glory of it is dead.” And with a sigh 
she rose and closed the window through which the chill 
mists of the coming night were already creeping. 

One day her servants told her that at the little hotel in 
the mountain village, where tourists in search of the 
picturesque, combined with the cheap, often came to 
stay, an elderly English lady lay very ill. Rejoiced to 
find something to arouse her out of her idle and useless 
existence, Helen hurried down the steep hillside to 
the hotel, and great indeed was her surprise to find 
in the sick lady no other than her old friend, Miss Fair- 
brother. 

The old school-mistress lay upon a hard bed in a most 
uncomfortable little bedroom, and welcomed the sweet- 
faced young woman in her deep widow’s weeds with 
positive rapture. In a few moments, holding her late 
pupil-teacher’s hands eagerly in her own, she told her 
all her little history. She had given up her school at 
Aberdare house to her nephew and his new wife. “ A 
very estimable person,” she told her; “not young nor 
at all pretty, my dear, but sensible, and has a little 
money — her father keeps a large linendraper’s shop in 
the city — and she will make Frederick a good wife, and 
be better suited to him, I dare say, than you would have 
been, my dear. And then she went on to say how she 
had thought she would set out and see the world before 
she died, and how she had been now travelling for some 
months with Sarah, the old housemaid from Aberdare 


A HARD LESSON. 


339 


house, as a companion and maid ; but somehow the food 
and the long journeys and the foreign wines, none of 
them agreed with her, and she felt very unwell and 
quite unable to proceed on her way. 

Needless to say that in a very few hours Miss Fair- 
brother and her ancient abigail had been safely trans- 
ferred to the comfortable villa on the mountain slope, 
where, under Helen’s good care and nursing, the old 
lady speedily recovered her health and strength, and 
where it required but little persuasion to induce her to 
take up her abode altogether. 

It seemed odd enough to Helen to be thus thrown back 
by the tide of fate into the closest daily contact with her 
old instructress. It made her feel sometimes as though 
time had gone back, and the past year had been a dream. 
Only that now it was she who guided and led, and Miss 
Fairbrother who depended upon her and could not 
do enough to express to Helen her gratitude and her 
admiration. Helen was decidedly the happier for this 
new interest in her life. 

And so to them all the six months came to an end, and 
October began at last. 

One morning Lady Camilla was surprised to receive 
a letter containing the formal compliments of Helen, 
Dowager Countess of Bainton, and requesting the pres- 
ence of Mr. and Lady Camilla Greyson at 5 2 Portman 
Square, “ To be present at a family meeting of great 
importance, on Thursday, the 10th of October.” Mr. 
Scarsdale also received a similar notification, and so 
also did Sir Augustus Rolls, and Mr. Venner, the 
clergyman. 

Great curiosity was awakened in the minds of all those 
who were thus mysteriously bidden to meet together in 
the unused town house which Lady Camilla persisted in 


340 


A HARD LESSON. 


regarding as her son’s, but of which he had resolutely 
refused to take possession. Lady Camilla telegraphed 
to Mr. Scarsdale for instructions, and Scarsdale tele- 
graphed back that he feared some new and unforeseen 
event had arisen, and that decidedly it would be better 
to be present. 

When the day arrived, therefore, Mr. Greyson and 
Lady Camilla repaired to London, and arrived in Port- 
man Square at the appointed hour. The first person 
they saw on entering the great gloomy library was their 
own son standing with his back to the fireplace. 

Helen, clad in deep weeds, rose with a bow at the 
entrance of her sister-in-law, but did not offer to shake 
hands with her. The three gentlemen had already 
arrived, and a fourth — a well-known solicitor employed 
as Lady Bainton’s legal adviser — while behind them, 
in a shadowy corner, Miss Fairbrother, now formally 
installed as companion to the young widow, sat by, a 
silent witness of the proceedings. 

When the new-comers had taken their places, Helen 
placed a small despatch-box upon the table and 
unlocked it. 

“I have asked you all to meet me here to-day,” she 
said, in her clear, sweet voice, “ because I have a paper 
of great importance here, which, by solemn oath to my 
dear husband, I was unable to make public until six 
months after his death. It is a codicil to his last will,” 
she added, raising her eyes and fixing them coldly and 
sternly upon Scarsdale, who grew livid under their 
significant glance — “ the will,” she added slowly and 
meaningly, “ which he made upon the morning of our 
marriage, which he delivered into Mr. Scarsdale’s keep- 
ing, and which has, oddly enough, never been found 
at all,” 


A HARD. LESSON. 


341 


“ I never had such a will, ” stammered Scarsdale. “ It 
is entirely a mistake.” 

Helen waved her hand. “ It is quite immaterial now, 
Mr. Scarsdale, whether it is ever found or no. May I 
trouble you to read this paper aloud?” she added, turn- 
ing to her own lawyer, who was seated beside her. 
The solicitor stood up. Mr. Scarsdale bent his head 
and trembled. Lady Camilla lay back almost fainting 
in her chair, with her smelling salts to her nose. 

The lawyer began to read: “ I, Edward John Raven- 
stoke, Earl of Bainton, desires to add this codicil to the 
will I wrote this morning.” 

It is needless to follow the words in detail. They 
were, however, clear, and plain enough. After six 
months, during which the will of the morning was to 
have been acted upon, Lord Bainton, “ by the special 
wish of my dear wife,” left to her this house in Port- 
man Square, with all its furniture, pictures, and plate; 
and of all the rest of his property one third ; the remain- 
ing two thirds to stand in her name in trust for “ my 
nephew, Edward Greyson,” to be handed over to him 
unconditionally by her, on his attaining his majority. 
Until that date Helen was empowered to act for him 
and was appointed as his sole guardian and sole trustee 
of the property. The family diamonds were also to go 
to Ted, but were to be kept in the bank until his 
wedding day. 

That was all. It was simple enough, and yet it was 
sufficient. It rendered Ted the undoubted proprietor of 
an income of four thousand five hundred a year, it left 
to the testator’s widow the more modest yet perfectly 
adequate income of two thousand, and it took Ted 
entirely out of his mother’s hand and placed him in 
Helen’s. 


342 


A HARD LESSON. 


Her revenge was indeed sweet! And when Ted 
flung himself on his knees beside her and kissed her 
hand in an outburst of affectionate gratitude she felt 
that she had gained all — and more than all — the reward 
she had worked for. 

For who now could dare to call her mercenary and 
scheming? Somehow the room emptied quickly. 
Scarsdale and Lady Camilla — inexpressibly relieved to 
find that Lady Bainton had no intention of inquiring 
into the fate of the destroyed will — took themselves off 
together with a somewhat suspicious precipitation ; and 
the others having shaken hands with her, she was left 
alone with Ted and with the lawyer who had undertaken 
to manage and arrange her affairs. He had been told 
nothing save that the will of which mention had been 
made was unaccountably lost, and suspected nothing of 
foul play. 

“I shall stop here with you for a bit,” said Ted to 
her; “ at least if you will keep me as a guest, Nell?” 

“For as long as ever you like, my dear boy,” 
answered Helen smiling. “Your home is with me, 
you know, now, and Miss Fairbrother and I will be 
very glad of your company. I expect that Mr. Reeve” — 
turning to the lawyer — “ will require us both in London 
for some little time yet, till all this business is settled.” 

“ You are a real briqk and no mistake, Nell,” said the 
boy to her later, after Mr. Reeve had gone and Miss 
Fairbrother had left the room. “ I was unutterly mis- 
erable before, for I felt I had no right to a penny of the 
money; but now I know it’s all right, and that I owe 
everything to you. I feel as happy as a sandboy. I 
wish, though, that we had gone shares alike,” he added 
with boyish simplicity; and then he bent down and 


A HARD LESSON. 


343 


threw his arms impetuously round her neck and kissed 
her. 

. “ Dear old Nell ! Now I hope you may be very happy 
some of these days!” 

“Perhaps I shall be,” answered Helen with a smile. 
“Anyhow, Ted, your good wishes shall bring me — 
pluck — I think! and perhaps also — luck!” 

Her precise meaning was somewhat enigmatical to 
Ted, who, however, went off whistling contentedly for 
a walk. 

When every one had left her, Helen rose from her 
chair, went slowly upstairs and entered the little room 
half-way on the staircase where she and Gilbert Nugent 
had parted. She closed the door behind her and stood 
leaning against it for a long time buried in thought. It 
all came back to her; his grief, his love, his parting 
words, the very look in his eyes as he had turned to 
leave her. The whole scene seemed to be so vividly 
revived that it might have taken place yesterday. 
Presently — she knew not how or why — a conviction 
came to her that he loved her still, that he was thinking 
of her now, at this very moment. Her heart began to 
beat strangely. She went hurriedly to her own room and 
put on her bonnet. Half an hour later a telegraphic 
message flashed forth from a central post-office on the 
journey round the world. 

“Come home — I want you,” was what it said; and 
Helen knew, as she walked homeward again with a 
lightened heart, that that message would not be sent 
in vain. 


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